Damaged Heart
by xelectrogirlx
Summary: A modern re-telling of Beauty and the Beast but with fairytale aspects. "Now listen to me carefully. From this day you have ten years to find somebody who will love you for who you are." "And if ten years pass and this person hasn't arrived... what then?" "Then, Sherlock Holmes, you will die. And the way you are at the moment, the world will be better off for it."
1. Prologue

**Damaged Heart**

**Prologue**

Once upon a time...

Deep in the Kent countryside there is a mansion which stands isolated, many miles from the nearest civilisation. In times gone by it was a fine building with large gleaming windows and well-tended grounds. The nearest neighbours laughingly called it the castle because of its size and intricate design.

The inhabitants were respected but not liked. Sherrinford and Victoria Holmes were rude, snobbish and conceited. Their eldest son, Mycroft, was wickedly clever yet pompous and overbearing. Their younger son shared his brother's keen intellect but there the similarities ended. Mycroft Holmes was the clear favourite and no matter how hard young Sherlock attempted to make his parents proud of him, he always failed. You couldn't say that Sherrinford and Victoria were deliberately cruel to their youngest child, it was simply more disinterest. They were so absorbed in themselves and Mycroft that they often seemed to forget they had two children.

As the boys grew, their differences became more marked. Mycroft spent much of his time closeted in the enormous library, reading and studying politics. He became overweight because he spent so much time simply sitting still or eating. Sherlock was the polar opposite. Tall and gangling, with a shock of dark curls, he could often be found roaming around in the grounds or the forest nearby. There he would find plants, corpses of small woodland animals and other items which he would carefully cart back to his rooms in the West Wing. He had a deep interest in science and had converted his living space into a sort of laboratory where he would conduct his experiments. Often he would attempt to show his parents or his brother any successful results.

'Mother! Look at what I've found...'

'Not now dear. Where's your brother?'

'In the library. He's _always_ in the library. But if you'll let me explain...'

'Not _now_, Sherlock. Run along will you?'

And so as his teenage years melted into his early twenties, Sherlock slowly became bitter and emotionally closed off. Starved of any sort of meaningful affection he buried his own emotions and feelings deep within himself.

When Sherlock was twenty-one the family held a magnificent formal dinner and dance. The women glittered in their jewels and lavish dresses and the men sweated in their formal suits. The guests mingled in the grand foyer; the sound of tinkling laughter and elegant conversation filled the air. Sherlock found the whole thing unutterably dull and depressing. For once his parents had remembered his existence and so, although he would much rather have been in his room with his latest experiments, he was forced to socialise. After offending the sixth person who'd attempted to talk to him, he was just debating sneaking into the garden for an illicit cigarette when a woman approached him, flicking her hair away from her face shyly. Sherlock took her in at a glance and sighed inwardly. Another vapid, boring girl with a crush on him. Pathetic.

'Hi, it's Sherlock isn't it? I'm Molly Hooper. My mother's friends with...'

'My parents, yes I know. Tell me, is anything you are planning to say actually interesting or can we cut this tedious encounter short now?'

The woman, Molly, flushed with embarrassment and dropped her eyes to the floor. 'I just thought I'd come over to say hello.'

'No, you came to flirt, a skill you are really quite inept at I'm afraid. You're hoping to snare a boyfriend tonight, hence the low-cut dress and rather vulgar shade of lipstick. Incidentally the dress does not disguise the fact that you are rather lacking in the chest department and the lipstick makes your mouth look far too large.'

'You say such cruel things,' Molly whispered, her gaze still riveted on the floor.

'I'm sure you'll get over it,' Sherlock scoffed, and began to turn away. He was stopped in his tracks by a hand clamped over his forearm. Surprised, he resumed his former position. Molly glanced up from the ground and Sherlock's eyes widened. The woman in front of him had all of Molly's features and yet there was something else writhing just beneath the surface, another face of vindictive beauty.

'You are a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes,' the woman whispered and her voice was not that of Molly Hooper. Startled, Sherlock glanced around at the throng of people, yet nobody seemed to have noticed anything was amiss. How could that be? He turned back to the woman.

'Who...?'

'Who I am is unimportant. What matters is who _you_ are. Now listen to me carefully. From this day you have ten years to find somebody who will love you for who you are. Only this person will be able to unlock your humanity which I know you have buried deep within yourself. You are henceforth cursed to live as an emotionless machine, an automaton until such a time as one arrives who can look beyond your iron outer walls and allow you to love.'

'And if ten years pass and this person hasn't arrived... what then?' Sherlock asked. He'd intended the words to come out as a sneer but instead they sounded weak and quavery. His mouth had gone dry. He felt something deep inside shrivel and harden.

'Then, Sherlock Holmes, you will die.' The woman leaned forward and whispered in his ear. 'And the way you are at the moment, the world will be better off for it.'

Sherlock barely took this in before the woman snapped her fingers and disappeared. He stared around, disbelieving.

A year later his father died of a heart attack. He didn't cry at his funeral, he didn't feel anything. A few years after that his dog, Gladstone, who he'd always adored, got run over. He felt nothing. When he was twenty-six his mother followed his father.

Mycroft, aware of the curse, left to search for a cure. Sherlock stayed in the mansion, alone but for the rudimentary staff. He closeted himself away in his rooms, barely seeing anybody. The night he was cursed an egg-timer had appeared on his balcony, covered by a glass dome. Sherlock was a genius, but even an idiot could work out that when the last grain of sand fell, his ten years were up.

The mansion fell into darkness and disrepair, the few servants that remained scuttled around the cavernous rooms like wraiths, serving a master who became more beastly and horrid with each passing day.

Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, prayed for the day somebody would manage to break the curse. She remembered the bright, happy little boy Sherlock Holmes had once been and could hardly reconcile that image to the grim reality of what he'd become. She yearned for the curse to be broken but deep in her heart believed it to be hopeless.

For who could ever love a beast?


	2. 1: Provincial Life

**Author's Note: Hi all. I'm making it a new thing now to try and limit my author's notes so this should really be the only one you see unless I think of something which might have a bearing on the story later on. Basically although this is set in the modern world there are obviously fairytale aspects to it, so for that you'll have to suspend your disbelief! I've tried to keep as close to the original **_**Beauty and the Beast**_** storyline as possible so you'll probably spot quite a few references. (Plus it gave me an excuse to watch it over and over and over again which is never a bad thing). Also I'm not one of these authors who hold updates ransom until they get reviews. The updates will be regular, probably every couple of days or so. Still, I would love to hear what you think if you have time to drop me a line. It's always good to get constructive feedback. That's it I think, I won't bore you anymore!**

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter One**

_**Provincial Life**_

John pulls into the car park, by some miracle managing to find a space, and cuts the engine.

'Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?' he asks. The woman sitting in the passenger seat snorts.

'I'm not so pathetic that I need my little brother to escort me to an AA meeting, thanks.'

'That's not what I... fine. Just call me if you need a lift home.'

'Will do,' the woman mutters, getting out the car. She slams the door and heads off towards the centre of town. John sighs and massages his temples. He'd thought that moving to a quiet town in Kent would enable him to relax after Afghanistan. He'd hoped that it would provide the perfect atmosphere to get his relationship with his sister back on track. He'd been wrong on both counts.

The town is pretty enough but it's so _stifling_. He feels almost as though he can't breathe properly here which is completely nonsensical when he thinks about the choking dust of war-torn Afghanistan. The air here is clean and pure and... boring.

'Might as well get some shopping done,' he mutters to himself, locking the car and limping towards the high street. His cane clatters on the pavement as he walks and he is aware of the glances others throw at him. Pity. Curiosity. He scowls and clasps his cane tighter. The dangers of moving to a small town. Ever since they moved here he and his sister have been the subject of gossip and speculation. He knows they don't fit in here. Why on earth did he ever think that moving to a provincial town would be a good idea?

'Morning, Johnny!'

His scowl intensifies momentarily before his expression morphs into one of polite disinterest as he turns toward the voice.

'Morning, Jim.'

'Have you thought about my offer?'

_Jesus_, John mutters to himself. Not only was moving here a massively bad idea he has also managed to land himself with a stalker in Jim Moriarty. Out of the all the young, pretty women he manages to get saddled with the amorous intentions of the creepiest guy he's ever met. When did his life become such a farce?

'Got to be honest, Jim... not really. And I'm kind of in a rush.'

'What, gotta get back to that old soak you call a sister?'

John rounds on the second speaker, his face flushed with anger. 'Don't you dare talk about Harry like that, Sebastian!'

'Yeah, don't talk about his sister like that!' Jim parrots mockingly, shooting a dark glare at his friend. Sebastian doesn't take any notice and mimes tilting a bottle up to his lips before forcing out a large burp. The two collapse with laughter, Jim's high and cackling, Sebastian's low and rough.

'Morons,' John mutters furiously, turning away to head back to the car.

'We'd be so good together Johnny!' Jim calls after him. John ignores him.

He heads straight back to the car and sits behind the wheel, drumming his fingers on the dashboard irritably. At first Jim's attentions had been amusing but now it's becoming downright annoying. And, if he's honest with himself, a little scary. He can't help feeling that there's something severely twisted in Jim's mind, the way he follows his every move is verging on the psychotic.

Eventually Harry rings for a lift and he drives her back home. She doesn't volunteer any information on her meeting and he doesn't ask. He knows better than to push her. She's been dry for two months now, ever since they moved.

'I've got something I have to tell you, John,' Harry announces hesitantly after they've got settled in the living room, John with a mug of tea and a book. He raises his eyes to hers questioningly. She coughs and fiddles with a strand of hair falling over her shoulder. 'You know I've been dry for months, yeah?'

He nods cautiously, unsure where this is going.

'Well, it's difficult to completely cut out such a major addiction so quickly and... I found myself going online more and more. It was just a bit of fun at first, I swear! I never meant it to become serious! But you know I have an addictive personality and now I... I'm in trouble, Johnny.'

He frowns, deeply confused. 'Harry, what? Slow down. What are you talking about?'

'Gambling,' she whispers. 'I've been going on gambling sites online. I owe somebody ten thousand pounds.'

'Jesus!' John shouts, almost tearing the page out of his book. 'What the...? Harry!' His voice lowers. 'Ten thousand?'

She nods miserably.

'How did you even get that far? Did you not think? Christ, what am I supposed to do? You don't have a job, I can barely pay the rent as it is – am I supposed to pluck the money from a magic tree?'

'I'm sorry, Johnny,' she mutters and now he can spot the tears slowly tracing their way down her cheeks. 'I needed something to fill...' she trails off and dashes the tears away with her sleeve. John feels his anger start to ebb, he can never stand it when she starts crying.

'It's alright,' he murmurs, despite his brain screaming the contrary, 'we'll figure it out. _I'll_ figure it out. Don't worry.'

Two weeks later he is no nearer to finding a solution. Harry has been placating the man she owes money to, assuring him that he will get it, but he is fast running out of patience. John has spent every spare minute poring over loan applications but every one so far as been rejected. He has even resorted to posting on his blog about his problem, although he omits mentioning exactly _why_ he needs ten thousand pounds so suddenly.

Most of the comments are ridiculous and unhelpful and he has all but given up when he sees a new response early in October.

**Hudson [posted at 13:43]: **_My employer may be interested in helping you. If you message back with your email address I can send you more details_.

That's it. John stares at the enigmatic words for at least ten minutes, frowning deeply. At that moment he sees Harry drift past the doorway, her face drawn and pale with anxiety as it has been for the past few weeks. That makes up his mind. Abruptly he messages back with his email address.

The next day there is a new message in his inbox. He clicks on it.

_Doctor Watson_

_My employer is in need of a physician and companion. He has given me permission to use any means necessary to secure one. Due to the unusual nature of his affliction this has been difficult to accomplish. _

_He is willing to offer you the ten thousand pounds you require upfront. In return you must take up your position at his residence immediately. You must stay until asked to leave; however long that may be. There will be no salary. _

_I realise that this may sound unconventional but if you have met with no other solutions to your problem, please respond as soon as you can._

_Mrs E. Hudson (housekeeper, Holmes Manor)_

John blinks at the screen, not quite able to fully understand what he has just read. He reads it again. And again. It is as he is reading it through for perhaps the seventh time, that Harry enters the room. Quickly he minimises the screen.

'Any joy?' she asks quietly, presuming he has been looking through his loan applications. He shakes his head minutely. 'It's just... the messages have been getting nastier, John. I don't mean to push you but he's going to involve the police soon, I know it.'

'I'll sort it,' he says, coming to a decision, getting up and kissing her on the forehead. 'I may have a way to come up with the money, but it's going to involve me going away for awhile.'

They talk about it late into the night. By the early morning, Harry has to accept that there is no other solution in sight.

'You're going to have to get a job without me to pay the bills, okay? I'm relying on you.' This is exactly the right thing to say. Harry's eyes light up.

'You can trust me, John. I know what you're giving up to do this for me so I'll do all I can to make this easier on you.'

John pulls her into a hug. 'Good,' he murmurs, resting his head on her shoulder. 'I'll email this Hudson woman back tomorrow.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The next day, before he replies to Mrs Hudson, he types the name 'Holmes' into google on his laptop. The results are many and varied but eventually he establishes that the Holmes family are, or had been, prestigious. If he isn't mistaken he is fairly sure they're members of the peerage, distantly related to the royal family.

Searching deeper, however, he finds a mystery associated with them. By all accounts they used to be the height of civilised society until things started going wrong, beginning with the death of Lord Sherrinford Holmes. In a matter of a few years he was followed by his wife. They left behind two sons. The elder apparently left the family home and John can find no mention of him in any of the documents. The younger is even more of a mystery. Not much is known about him, apart from that his name is Sherlock and nobody has seen or heard of him in years.

He wonders which is the employer Mrs Hudson mentioned. At a guess he would say Sherlock. He also puzzles over what could possibly be wrong with the man. Sighing, and wondering what on earth he has managed to get himself into, he opens up his email and begins composing a reply.

_Mrs Hudson_

_I accept your offer. Upon receipt of the money (my bank details are given at the end of this email) I will take up my position as physician and companion to your employer. _

_I would be grateful if you could furnish me with some details as to what my duties will be and also directions to the Holmes Manor along with an exact date of commencement._

_Yours sincerely_

_Dr. John Watson_

He hesitates for the briefest second, feeling somehow that this moment is a turning point in his life, before he hits send. Done. Now he just has to wait.

The reply is not long in coming.

_Doctor Watson_

_Many thanks for your email. Unfortunately I am unable to detail your duties at present. Rest assured they will become obvious once you arrive._

_The money has been transferred and should arrive within two hours. Please email back once you have acknowledged receipt of the funds._

_Directions to the manor are enclosed. Please arrive by ten a.m. on October 13__th__. _

_Yours _

_Mrs. E. Hudson_

Exactly two hours later John checks his account. He still isn't entirely sure this is all real and not some hideous practical joke. Sure enough, however, he finds that he is suddenly ten thousand pounds in credit.

Immediately he transfers it to Harry and calls her into the room.

'It's done,' he says, wrapping an arm around her waist as she stands next to him. 'Transfer the money as soon as you can. I have to pack, I need to be at the manor by ten tomorrow.'

'Thank you so much for this, John,' she whispers.

He is about to reply when there is a knock at the door.

'I'll get it,' he groans, standing up and reaching for his cane. Upon pulling the door open he wished he'd ignored the caller.

'Jim. What do you want now?'

'To discuss my offer,' the man responds gaily, entering without being asked.

'Yes, I thought about it for perhaps two seconds and then rejected it out of hand,' John responds sharply. 'I'm not interested, alright?'

'Well, no,' Jim responds softly, cocking his head to one side and staring at John. 'It's not alright. I'm used to getting what I want. And right now,' he moves forward and rests a hand on John's bicep, 'I want you, Johnny.'

'Well perhaps now it's time to learn that _I want_ doesn't get,' John retorts, shaking Jim's hand off his arm.

'So feisty,' Jim coos, batting his eyelashes. 'Why won't you marry me?'

John laughs. 'Er... because I hardly know you? Because I'm not gay? Because you're psychotic? Pick whichever, it doesn't matter to me.'

'I'll go for the first one,' Jim responds gleefully. 'That's easily remedied.'

John, realising his mistake, pinches the bridge of his nose. 'Just get out, Jim, before I make you.'

'Oooh,' Jim cackles. 'I like a man with spirit.'

Abruptly John grabs him by the shoulders and virtually pushes him out of the door. Slamming it shut he leans against the wall, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down. Harry peers curiously at him.

'You alright, John?'

'Yeah, fine. I'm going to pack.'

Up in his room John surveys his meagre belongings. Well, this won't take long. Within an hour he has a large suitcase filled with virtually all his possessions. Among them is a photo of him and Harry aged about seven and ten respectively, his old service pistol and his RAMC mug. The rest is clothes, his laptop and a few books.

He sets off at half past seven the next morning. According to google maps it will only take him two hours to get there but he has no desire to be late. He also has to factor in that he will most probably get lost.

Much to his surprise the journey is hassle free and he soon finds the driveway to the manor. Pulling in at the entrance he checks his watch. Half past nine.

'Better to be early,' he mutters, accelerating slowly down the meandering drive. The scenery around him is beautiful, rolling hills and belts of trees accentuated by the odd lake. The driveway seems to unfurl forever until suddenly he turns a corner and is confronted by the manor.

John realises that this probably used to be a very fine old house. Well, perhaps castle would be nearer the mark. That's certainly what it looks like with its spiralling turrets and balconies. Craning his head he peers up at it as he parks the car and heaves his suitcase out of the boot. Yes, it certainly was once fine, but now neglect has taken over. The gardens he can see around him are overgrown and wild. The windows are dull and dirty. The stonework is filthy. The whole building has an air of foreboding about it. He shivers slightly as he hauls his case up to the front door, ignoring the twinges in his leg and shoulder.

The massive oaken door opens without him knocking and he peers inside, looking for any glimpse of who opened it.

'Hello?'

'Doctor Watson?' a woman asks from the shadows. He nods in assent and heaves his case over the threshold. He is greeted by an elderly lady with slightly dishevelled grey curls and a pair of glasses perched low on her nose. 'Thank goodness you're here, dear! I'm Mrs Hudson.'

'Mrs Hudson? The housekeeper?' John questions. He'd imagined her as a Mrs Danvers character, forbidding and oppressive, from the tone of her emails. The woman in front of him looks as though she could be somebody's lovable, dotty granny.

'The very same! I'll show you to your room and then you must come and have some tea. Forgive the place being such a mess, I promise I've spent a lot of time on your room.'

'No need to worry,' John mutters automatically, following her through the cavernous lobby, dragging his case behind him. As he walks he glances around. The ceiling is almost too high to see clearly and to his left and right are two curving staircases which lead to the upper floors. There is an elaborate candelabra hanging down in the main foyer and the marble floor is carpeted with a few plush rugs.

Yet he notices the signs of neglect. The carpet is threadbare in parts, the marble below chipped. The candelabra has cobwebs hanging off it and the stairs appear to be carpeted in dust. They ascend slowly, the tap of John's cane echoing emptily. As they make their way through the corridors, John's sense that this house was once beautiful is cemented by the amazing tapestries and portraits which adorn the walls. The artistry is incredible and yet now they hang gloomy and forgotten, the years of neglect showing in their dulled frames. The outside of the house showed that it contains many windows but heavy curtains have been nailed across them. John is aware that his mouth has dropped open.

He cannot understand why anybody who had the chance to live in a place like this would choose to shutter it up and allow it to fall into such a state of disrepair.

'What happened here?' he murmurs to himself. He is unaware he has spoken aloud until Mrs Hudson turns to him with a deep sadness colouring her expression.

'It's best not to think about it, dear,' she says. 'Lord knows I try not to. Now, this is you.' She turns the handle of a oak door and pushes hard. The room revealed beyond is far better than what John had been expecting. Given the state of the house he'd half anticipated being closeted away in some sort of dungeon.

Although the room is still fairly grim and depressing, there is evidence that somebody has attempted to brighten it up. The curtains have been yanked back from the windows, allowing some light in. There's a vase of freshly picked flowers on one of the sidetables and as far as he can tell the room is free from dust and dirt.

A beautiful four-poster bed stands in one corner, the bedclothes evidently freshly laundered. A small chest-of-drawers and an ornate wardrobe are positioned by the window. To his right is a marble basin with a fresh bar of soap on the side and a simple mirror hangs above it.

'What do you think?' Mrs Hudson asks, her hands fluttering anxiously in front of her. 'We, that is the other staff and myself, tried our best.'

'It's wonderful, Mrs Hudson,' John says honestly, dropping his case just inside the door with a sigh of relief. But as relieved as he is about the state of his room, he can't suppress the many questions which have been building ever since he got that first enigmatic email. 'Will I be meeting Mr Holmes soon?'

Mrs Hudson shrugs expansively. 'I couldn't tell you, dear. He hardly ever leaves his rooms. They're in the West Wing and it's strictly off limits.'

'But, I thought he wanted me as a companion and doctor?' The housekeeper shifts uneasily and John frowns. 'He _does_ know I'm here?' he asks suspiciously.

'Oh yes,' she replies. 'It's just that, well, it's more that I persuaded him to allow you to come. It's our last-ditch attempt before...' she trails off and her eyes widen slightly with panic.

'Before what?'

'Nothing. Nothing at all, dear. Everything will become clear in time.'

'But what am I expected to do?'

'I'm sure you'll find plenty to occupy yourself,' she replies vaguely. 'In the meantime, if you hear explosions or strange noises coming from the West of the castle... that's just his way. It's nothing to panic about.'

'Explosions?' John repeats, alarmed. 'Why on earth...'

'He's a scientist of sorts but sometimes he can misjudge his experiments. A genius to be sure, but often he doesn't know or recognise his own limitations. Nowadays, I don't think he even cares.' The sadness descends on her features once more and then she seems to mentally shrug it off and offers him a tremulous smile. 'Lunch will be at one o'clock in the kitchen. If you get lost, I'm sure somebody will be available to point you in the right direction.'

And with that, she leaves, shutting the door behind her. John gapes for a second, sighs, heaves his case onto the bed and begins the process of unpacking.

He places the picture of himself and Harry on the bedside table and tucks his gun into the drawer just below it. His laptop and RAMC mug go on the desk which is just underneath the window and he arranges his few books on the almost empty bookshelf. Last to be put away are the few clothes he's brought which mostly comprise of his favourite jumpers and jeans. He has packed his old service uniform however and tucks it safely away in the far corner of the wardrobe along with his dress shoes and dog tags.

Toothbrush goes on the sink along with his toothpaste, shower gel, flannel and shampoo. Then he turns and gazes at the room. Seeing his meagre possessions in place just serves to remind him how bland and boring his life is at the moment. He thinks about this for a moment and then smiles suddenly. Although he wouldn't have put being shut away in a gloomy mansion with a madman who blows things up for company as top of his things-to-do list, at the very least he is certain it won't be boring.


	3. 2: Master of the House

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Two**

_**Master of the House**_

After about half an hour of searching he manages to locate the kitchen. Contrary to what Mrs Hudson had said, there had been nobody around to ask for directions. The mansion, he has to remind himself not to refer to it as a castle, had been completely deserted and eerily silent.

'Ah, you found it!' Mrs Hudson exclaims as he tentatively pushes the door open. The kitchen is large and in stark contrast to the rest of the house, bustling with life. Servants move back and forth with steaming bowls of food which they place on the massive wooden table in the middle of the room.

'Is everybody here?' John asks, glancing around at the servants.

'Yes, this is everyone,' Mrs Hudson sighs. 'I'll do the introductions. Greg is our head of security,' she gestures to a handsome, grey-haired gentleman who clasps John's hand warmly.

'Good to meet you. It's nice to have a different face about.'

'Anderson is the butler,' she whispers, nodding at a weaselly man in the corner. 'His first name's Michael but he won't respond if you call him that.'

'Why not?' John asks confused, eyeing Anderson's faded and patched-up suit and slicked back hair.

'He's still clinging to the old ways, back when there were guests and callers here,' Mrs Hudson says sadly. 'It's been a long time since we've had any real work to do but our wages get paid regularly and usually we just attempt to stop the house from falling into total ruin.' She sighs and beckons a woman with bouncing curls over.

'This is Sally. She used to be one of the under-maids but now, well, she's the only one left.' John takes her offered hand and presses a kiss to the back of it which makes her blush and Anderson scowls. _Aha, something going on there_, John thinks immediately, filing the knowledge away in the back of his mind for perusal later.

'Chip should be in any moment,' she says. 'He's my grandson, he does his best with the gardens.' She spreads her hands. 'And that's everybody.'

John exhales slightly. He can appreciate the loneliness that must be ever-present here and their excitement, with the obvious exception of Anderson, at a new face. At that very moment the door to the kitchen crashes open and John whirls to see a flushed, panting boy of about fourteen come skidding into the room.

'The Master's on 'is way!' he gasps out, holding onto the edge of the table to catch his breath. John sees a smear of dirt at his temple and his hands are caked in mud. It takes no great powers of deduction to work out that this must be Chip, Mrs Hudson's grandson. The reaction to his words is quite remarkable.

Mrs Hudson gasps and begins frantically smoothing her errant grey curls. Sally and Anderson busy themselves with setting the table to rights and into some semblance of order. Greg, who had been collapsed in a chair, springs to his feet and assumes a formal, almost military stance. Chip begins scrubbing at his hands and face with the soapy water from the sink. In the midst of this sudden flurry of activity, John stands, a little bewildered, clasping his cane tightly. He is naturally a little nervous but he finds himself curious to meet this enigmatic, distant master of the house. The man who paid ten thousand pounds, no questions asked, in return for his presence here.

Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, has finished primping, taken a delicate and ornate tea-set down and is carefully pouring tea into one of the cups. Just as she places the teapot back on the tray, a man appears in the open doorway of the kitchen. John stares.

He is tall, over six foot easily, with a frame which somehow appears at once skinny and muscular. His dark curls are wild, falling to his shoulders in a tangled mass. Pale eyes flash in a face adorned with high cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. In one hand he's carrying a smoking petri dish.

'I require lemon juice, a saucepan and any raw joint of meat you have,' he announces bluntly. Mrs Hudson blinks but has obviously become used to her employer's outlandish demands as without a word she signals to Sally who grudgingly starts raiding the cupboards.

In the meantime the man's attention shifts to John who suddenly finds himself the focus of a piercing stare.

'You're the cripple,' he states with a scathing glance at John's leg.

'Sorry, what?' John asks, disbelieving.

'Are you deaf? I presume not. That would be rather too much misfortune for one person, what with your recurrent nightmares, PTSD, low bank-balance, alcoholic brother and short stature. Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'Afghanistan, but how...?'

'You're boring me now. I'm Sherlock Holmes by the way. You can call me Sherlock, I don't mind, it's not like we'll be seeing a lot of each other.'

John, ignoring the flicker of anger and hurt at Sherlock's words and trying his damndest to remember that Sherlock was the one who gave him the money to help his sister, forces a strained smile.

'Fine.'

Sherlock gazes at him, for the first time a flicker of uncertainty showing through his cold arrogance.

'That's it? No protestations of how rude I am? How dare I?'

John shrugs. 'Nope. And you may be a genius but you got one thing wrong.'

Sherlock eyes him narrowly. 'What?'

'Harry's short for Harriet.' He smirks. 'My alcoholic _sister_.' He turns away and sits down at the table, silently pulling a plate of chicken towards him.

There is a dead silence for a few moments before he hears the door slam shut and knows that Sherlock has left, presumably laden with the items he came for.

'You probably shouldn't have done that, dear,' Mrs Hudson whispers, taking a seat opposite him.

'Why not?' he asks coolly. 'Doesn't anybody ever stand up to him?'

'Well, no,' she responds in a shocked tone. 'He's the master.'

'Being a master of a house doesn't give him the right to behave like that to other people,' John says curtly, taking a bite of chicken.

'There are... reasons,' she murmurs. 'Reasons he's like he is. Not all of it is his fault.'

John sighs and sits back in his chair. 'I'm sick of the cryptic responses here. Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on in this house? And why I have to _stay_ here for what may well be the rest of my life with a wanker like that in charge?'

There is a scandalised collective intake of breath. Mrs Hudson rests her head in her hands and her voice is unutterably sad as she replies.

'You won't be here for the rest of your life, Doctor Watson. At most you'll only need to stay here for a few months.'

'Why? What happens then?'

'We can't talk about it,' Greg replies, his expression tormented.

'Can't or won't?' John questions, rolling his eyes.

'_Can't_,' Greg insists before stalking out of the kitchen.

XXXXXXXXXX

For the next few days John attempts to learn his way around the mansion. He neither sees nor hears anything of Sherlock, and he is glad of it. The memory of the other man's words still make him seethe inwardly with anger. How can anybody be that cruel and callous? Mrs Hudson and the other staff seem more than willing to excuse his behaviour but then they're used to it. Still, he often finds himself wondering about Sherlock, about whether he was born a heartless bastard or whether something in his past happened to make him the way he is now. From the little hints dropped by Mrs Hudson and the stories he read online he guesses that it's the latter, but he'll be damned if he knows, or cares, what it was.

On the fourth evening of his stay in the Holmes manor, however, he meets its master for the second time.

He is sitting at his desk, trying to write his blog, when there's a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson peeks around at him.

'Coo-ee, it's only me, dear.'

John rolls his neck from side to side in an attempt to work the cricks out and beckons her in. 'Ah, you've arrived in the nick of time,' he says happily. 'I need a distraction from this literary catastrophe.'

'I'm glad,' she says, looking a little bewildered. 'I'm just here to inform you that Mr Holmes requires your presence at dinner.'

'Oh, that's very kind of him, I'm sure,' John responds, unable to help the bite in his words, 'but I'm not particularly hungry. I think I'll just have something later. Thanks anyway.' He turns back to his computer and taps at the keys for a few seconds longer before becoming aware that she hasn't left. Sighing he twists back towards her. She's wringing her hands anxiously and biting at her lower lip. 'What is it?'

'It's not really a request,' she mutters.

'What? You mean, it's an order? From the lord of the manor?' He laughs and then sobers up quickly as she nods miserably.

'I was told not to come down without you.'

John gets up from his chair and folds his arms across his chest. 'You tell him this, Mrs Hudson. He may have paid ten thousand quid for my presence here but there was no clause which stated I have to do everything he _orders_. I'm not coming down, and that's an end to it.'

Mrs Hudson looks stricken, and for a moment John hates himself for putting her in such an obviously difficult position, but he knows that if he allows Sherlock Holmes to treat him like a doormat he'll be trodden on for the rest of his time at the manor.

Eventually she leaves and he collapses back in his chair and stares at the blinking cursor on his computer screen. Just what in hell has he got himself into here? A few minutes go by before he hears distant thundering footsteps on the stairs which grow steadily louder until the door to his room bursts open. Swivelling around calmly he sees Sherlock standing on the threshold with a face like thunder.

'Problem?' John inquires, raising an eyebrow.

'Dinner is ready,' Sherlock announces. 'Come down.'

'No.'

'It wasn't a question. I understand you are just as stupid as other normal people but surely even you can understand the subtleties of the English language.'

John leans back in his chair. 'I'm not your slave, _Sherlock_. I'm not hungry.'

'I paid money for you to be here. That means you have to do what I say.'

John eyes him levelly. 'You may have paid money for me to be here but we still live in England and there is such a thing as the Human Rights Act. Slavery was abolished in eighteen-thirty-three.'

Sherlock stares at him and then turns on his heel and stalks out of the door. John massages his temples and collapses spread-eagled on his bed, his blog forgotten.


	4. 3: Getting to Know You

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Three**

_**Getting to Know You**_

Sherlock, meanwhile, abandons dinner and heads up to his rooms where he sits and tries to think. What is it about the cripple which fascinates him so much?

Mrs Hudson had come up with the idea that with the end of his ten years grace rapidly approaching, it might be a good plan to have a doctor on hand. Nobody, least of all Sherlock, has any clue about what will actually happen to him when his allotted time is finally up. Will he sicken and waste away or will it be sudden, like a knife in the back or a heart attack? As much as Sherlock hates his life at the moment he has found that he doesn't _want_ to die. He wants to live.

But he has realised it's a fruitless hope. In the early days of the curse he had gone out into the neighbouring towns and villages praying, despite his own scepticism, to meet this person Molly had spoken of. Everywhere he went, however, his reputation preceded him and he was met with fear, confusion and outright hostility. He was even physically attacked.

In the years that followed, up until the present day, he has stayed close to the manor, too anxious to even step out of the gates. He spends his time experimenting, staring at the egg-timer on his balcony or playing his violin.

The violin is one of his few genuine pleasures and he revels in the emotions he is able to coax from its strings. The emotions he will never be able to express verbally. He still feels them, deep within, shut away in some dark place he doesn't have access to. Too often he feels his mind is like some sort of computer hard-drive and his feelings are a corrupted file. _File corruption. Access denied_.

So... back to the cripple. Crossing to the window the next morning he catches sight of him, walking the grounds with Greg. Their heads are close together, obviously deep in conversation. Sherlock's gaze roves over every detail of the newest addition to his staff. Injured leg, hence the cane, but now that he's looking closely he notices that the limp is not nearly as pronounced as it was. Pyschosomatic then? Interesting. The man's hair gleams golden in the wintry sunlight and as he turns to say something to Greg, Sherlock sees his warm blue eyes crinkle with sudden laughter. He feels a tug, deep in his chest.

Startled he steps away from the window, one hand flying to his breastbone. _What was that?_ What is he doing? Staring out at the man like some sort of pathetic princess in a fairytale. Resolutely he crosses to his laboratory table and busies himself with his latest experiment, resolving to put the crippled doctor with the golden hair and bright blue eyes out of his mind for good.

This proves easier said than done. The next night Sherlock finds himself stalking through the manor. It is late, almost half past eleven and the house is silent. All the staff have long since gone to bed. In these dark hours the manor belongs to him and him alone. During the day there is too much risk of being accosted and bothered by the imbeciles who run the place. Pausing halfway down a corridor, Sherlock turns and rests his hand on the handle of a door. He squares his shoulders, pushes down and enters the room silently, closing the door softly behind him.

He doesn't know why he still comes here. The air is still faintly redolent with well-remembered perfume. Her brushes are set out on the vanity table which is now covered in dust. Sherlock doesn't allow Mrs Hudson, Sally or anybody else in here to clean. Silently he stares up at the portrait hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

Sherrinford and Victoria Holmes. He stands tall and proud with an arm draped casually around her shoulders. She is gazing up at him, a small smile on her lips. Her hands rest lightly on the shoulders of a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, who stares out of the portrait with an expression carefully devoid of any emotion. Sherlock moves backwards, still staring at the picture, and sits down on the edge of the bed. Looking at this, who would have guessed that at the time it was painted Sherrinford and Victoria had two children? Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be seen.

He may have grown bitter by the time the curse was put upon him, but he remembers a time when he'd truly loved his parents. He'd tried for years to make them notice him. Desperately he tries to summon any kind of feeling, even a single tear. It's futile of course. He has come here almost every night in the years since his parents' death and there's nothing.

Tonight, true to form, there isn't a tear. And yet he does feel _something_. A deep sort of ache somewhere in his chest. This has never happened before. He stares at the portrait, attempting to figure out what's changed.

It takes him a few seconds and when he does he could have kicked himself for being so obviously obtuse. The crippled doctor, of course! He stalks out of the room, shutting the door behind him and then pauses.

An ordinary ex-army doctor from London. That's all he is. Sherlock has spent time with him and is convinced that the man has no illuminating features, indeed he seems as stupid as the rest. How could a man like that be the one to break the curse? He scowls and before he realises what he's doing, he's making his way to John's room. Stopping outside he presses his ear to the wood of the door. There's no sound. Praying that he's gone to bed, Sherlock pushes down on the handle and makes his way in.

Sure enough he can see immediately by the moonlight making its way through a crack in the curtains that the doctor is fast asleep in bed. Silently, still not knowing quite why he's doing this, he goes over and stares down at the man who has been plaguing his thoughts ever since he arrived.

He's handsome, there's no doubt about that. In sleep the lines of tension on his face have eased, making him look younger, almost boyish. His blonde hair is cut fairly short but it's long enough to fall over his eyes. An average man in every way it would seem, except that _something_ has caught Sherlock's attention.

Suddenly the doctor huffs in sleep and twists over so that he's lying on his side. One bare arm comes up out of the covers to rest on the pillow, fingers splayed on the fabric. This movement has made the blanket fall away slightly and Sherlock can now see an ugly looking scar on his left shoulder. _A bullet_ he surmises instantly, having seen enough crime-scene photos on the interent to know what he's looking at. So he _was_ injured in Afghanistan, it just wasn't his leg. Interesting. There's another tugging feeling in his chest and he inhales sharply.

The man shifts again, restlessly, perhaps subconsciously aware he is being observed and Sherlock backs away, out of the room, closing the door behind him quietly. He stays outside for a few minutes, attempting to gather his thoughts. Then he hears it. In his room John has begun moaning in his sleep, muttering a name in an agonised tone of voice. Sherlock strains to hear it. _Billy_. He must be having a nightmare, most likely about his time in Afghanistan. His hand drifts back to the doorhandle, his mind in an agony of indecision, whether to leave or whether to go back and help the man. In the end he leaves, hating that he cannot be the one to give the doctor the comfort he needs.

Back in the West Wing, Sherlock heads straight for his violin. Within moments a plaintive melody echoes around his rooms, making its way out of the open balcony doors and into the night air.

XXXXXXXXXX

'I had the oddest dream last night,' John remarks to Greg as he cuts into his bacon early the next morning. Greg glances at him inquiringly over the rim of his coffee mug. John laughs slightly. 'Well, it was more of a nightmare really. I dreamt that Sherlock was in my room, just standing and staring at me. It was creepy.'

'Sounds it,' Greg responds, shuddering slightly.

'Perhaps you should take to locking your door,' Sally says. 'I don't mean to scare you, John, but the man's a monster. He's capable of pretty much anything. A few days before you arrived we were talking about that girl who went missing a few months back. Mr Holmes came in, scanned the article in the paper, announced she was dead, laughed about the incompetence of the police and left.'

'Why do you all stay? If he's so unbearable why don't you leave?' John asks through a mouthful of bacon.

'It's kind of hard to explain,' Greg responds. John sighs, resigning himself to yet another cryptic answer.

'Fine. D'you fancy a walk after breakfast? You promised to show me the stables.'

'Didn't have you down as a man to like horses,' Greg says thoughtfully. 'But sure, we'll head over. And after we've done that I need to check the gates.'

'Why?'

'Sometimes people play pranks. It's mostly harmless but a couple of times I've found animal traps laid just outside.' He notices John's confused expression and sighs. 'Mr Holmes isn't particularly liked around here.'

'Jesus,' John says, getting up as Greg finishes his coffee. 'I mean I can understand why they don't like him but that seems a little extreme.'

Greg shrugs and leads the way out of the manor. 'He wasn't always like this,' he says suddenly as they skirt the edge of the lake.

'What d'you mean?' John asks, startled.

'He used to be... different. I was employed here by his parents years and years ago, back when he was about eight. They weren't exactly cruel but they never gave him the slightest bit of attention. His older brother was always the favourite.'

'Oh, that's right. I remember reading a bit about him. What was his name?'

'Mycroft. He's seven years Sherlock's senior. He never had much time for Sherlock either.' Greg smiles slightly. 'When Sherlock was a kid he used to follow me about everywhere. Wanted to know all about the various crime-scenes I'd been on in the past.' He glances at John. 'I was a police officer, for awhile.'

John nods, his brows knitting together thoughtfully. 'So what happened to him? From what you've said and what I've read in the news there was an incident almost ten years ago but nobody seems to know what it was.'

'Ah, here are the stables,' Greg responds abruptly, gesturing at the buildings just in front of them. 'Fancy having a look around?'

John is about to mention the sudden, and surely uncoincidental change of subject, but decides it would be pointless.

'Great. How many horses do you keep?'

'There used to be quite a few but now we've only got three. Chip looks after them.' Greg grins. 'He's part gardener, part stable-boy.' John wanders over to the first stall and looks in. Coming to stand beside him, Greg takes an apple from his pocket and holds it out. 'This is Prince. He's Sherlock's stallion.'

'Prince?' John repeats doubtfully, as a huge black horse advances and takes the apple from Greg's outstretched hand.

'He was already named when Sherlock bought him,' Greg replies, laughing a little and patting Prince's neck. 'He didn't see the need to change it. Winston, Mycroft's horse, is in the next stall.'

'Let me guess, keen on politics?' John asks.

'Correct,' Greg says, smiling. 'And the other is Beauty. She belonged to Sherlock's mother and he refuses to sell her.'

Perhaps hearing their names, two more heads emerge from the neighbouring stalls. Winston is a handsome bay stallion while Beauty is a dainty palomino mare.

'They're gorgeous,' John says, wandering over to Beauty and rubbing her nose. She whickers at him and nudges at his shoulder.

'Do you know how to ride?' Greg asks, tossing another apple over for John to give to Beauty.

'A little. I took lessons when I was younger. My sister was very keen and I got dragged along. In the end I carried on riding much longer than she did.'

'What are you doing in here?'

As one, John and Greg whirl around to see Sherlock standing facing them, his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

'Just thought I'd show John the horses,' Greg replies anxiously. 'He was interested.'

'And you thought you were the right person to do it?' Sherlock's tone is scathing. 'I never realised you were an expert.'

'I should probably go check the gates,' Greg says, already moving out of the stables. 'John, you still coming?'

Before John can respond, Sherlock turns on him, his eyes flashing with a barely concealed fury.

'Ah, trying to leave? Well, I can't say I blame you. But must I remind you of the conditions you are under while here?'

'There's no need,' John spits out. 'I remember them perfectly. And for your information I wasn't intending to go anywhere.'

Sherlock scoffs as if he thinks that is distinctly unlikely and then shifts slightly from foot to foot. John looks closely at him. Beneath the bravado and arrogance there is something that looks almost like anxiety and confusion in Sherlock's eyes.

'If you're interested in horses you can do a lot better than Greg,' Sherlock manages eventually, tugging at one of his curls. 'I need to exercise them today. One of your duties can be to help out.' He scowls. 'Again, that wasn't a request.'

John blinks. 'You want me to go riding with you?'

'It would help. And you're a competent rider.'

John laughs harshly. 'Oh and how did you deduce that? From a smear of mud on my shoe?' Sherlock gazes at him.

'No. I overheard the last part of your conversation with Greg.' He gestures at the tack hanging on the wall opposite. 'Shall we? I presume you remember how to do it?'

About ten minutes later they have Prince and Beauty saddled and ready to go. Sherlock swings himself into Prince's saddle with the ease of long-practice. John struggles a little bit but soon enough he is nudging Beauty into a trot, following Sherlock.

They ride side by side toward the outer limits of the grounds in silence at first until John decides to speak.

'I never asked, how did you know about Afghanistan? And...' he remembers the cruel words and flinches minutely, '... and everything else?'

'Easy,' Sherlock responds casually. 'Your posture when I saw you screamed military. Added to which you have tan-lines on your wrists and neck. That indicates you spent quite some time out of doors in the sun but not for any pleasurable reason such as sunbathing. Abroad on military service; the only two at the moment are Iraq and Afghanistan. Your phone was on the kitchen table with an inscription. Harry Watson, with love, Clara. I got that Harry was a sibling from that, though obviously the gender was incorrect.' At this juncture he frowns before continuing and John has to stifle a smirk. 'The socket on the phone for the charger was marked with scuffs, indicative that whoever charged it up often had shaky hands. Always present on an alcoholic's phone, very distinctive. Added to that you had bags under your eyes and were clutching your cane tightly during all the commotion my arrival caused. It wasn't a hard leap to surmise you're still traumatised by the war. The PTSD and nightmares was therefore just an educated guess.'

They ride in silence for a few seconds longer. John is desperately trying to feel furious at how casually Sherlock has revealed virtually his entire life story, but he can't quite manage it. He only remembers how passionate and alive the other man had looked as he recounted all the clues, one hand gesturing vigorously in the air.

'That was amazing,' he says at last.

Sherlock stares at him. 'What?'

'Completely amazing. Incredible.'

The other man looks stumped. 'That's not what people usually say,' he responds at last, his pale eyes confused.

'What do people usually say?'

'Piss off.'

John laughs, not bitterly or harshly. Sherlock continues staring at him for a moment longer before he smiles tentatively and John has to remind himself to breathe. It shouldn't be such a big deal, he thinks, to see somebody smile. But for some reason that small quirk of Sherlock's lips _is_ a big deal. He hasn't seen the other man smile since he arrived, he realises. Not once. He feels a surge of pride to know that _he_ was the one to crack that icy exterior.

'You should do that more often,' he remarks, turning his gaze back to the path.

'Do what?' Sherlock asks.

'Smile.'

With that, John kicks Beauty into a canter and rides off.


	5. 4: The Hourglass

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Four**

_**The Hourglass**_

Sherlock watches as John disappears round a bend in the path, the now familiar tugging in his chest present once again.

_Amazing_, he'd said. _Incredible_. And yes, Sherlock had smiled. Smiled for the first time in years. He remains frozen for a few seconds longer and then spurs Prince into action.

He finds Greg kneeling on the ground near the front gates. Beside him are a small pile of animal caltraps.

'More?' he snaps, dismounting.

'Just found 'em,' Greg says, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans.

'You're to stop spending so much time with the cripple,' Sherlock says suddenly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Greg. 'He was employed to be _my_ companion, not yours. And yet he's spending all his time wandering the grounds with you.'

Greg brushes off his hands and smirks at Sherlock. 'You wonder why that is when you're such a Prince Charming?' he says sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock before his expression turns serious. 'Honestly, if we've got any chance of breaking this curse you need to at least try to control your temper.'

'Speaking of the curse,' Sherlock begins hesitantly, 'I did actually come here to confess something. I've been having these... feelings.'

Greg blinks. 'Feelings? Really? About John?'

'No, about Mrs Hudson... of course about John. At least, I think they're feelings. There's a strange tugging in my chest whenever I'm around him. It's uncomfortable.'

'Well that's great! That's real progress! It sounds like John might be the one to finally break the spell.'

'It's trickier than that,' Sherlock snaps, irratiton flashing in his eyes. '_I_ may be having these feelings for the cripple but the flip side of the curse says he has to fall for me. Do you _honestly_ see that happening?'

Greg frowns and rubs at his chin. 'Ah, I see what you mean. Well, a good start would be to stop referring to him as "the cripple". I'm pretty sure as a term of endearment it's not that high on the list.'

'Any more pearls of wisdom?'

'Quite a few actually,' Greg replies. 'Don't treat him like a slave. Don't constantly belittle him. And you could try to actually talk and listen. That's the basis of most relationships.'

Sherlock flinches and turns away. 'I don't want or need a relationship, Greg! I just need somebody to fall for me so that this stupid spell gets broken.'

'Well, good luck with that,' Greg responds sadly, starting to walk away. 'Because the way you're going you'll be dead in a few months.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'Did you mean what you said?'

John latches the gate to Beauty's stall and turns to face Sherlock. 'What did I say?'

'About me being amazing and incredible. Did you mean it?'

John laughs a little. 'I said your deductions were amazing and incredible. I never said anything about you. But yes, I did.'

Sherlock hesitates before leading Prince into the stables and beginning to un-tack him. 'Nobody's ever said that before.'

'Yeah, I gathered that,' John responds, leaning against the wood frame of Beauty's stall and folding his arms. 'What happened to you?'

Sherlock goes stiff, his posture immediately tensing. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that most of the time you act like this monster and then sometimes, like earlier, something else shows through. It's like you're putting on a mask to try and convince people that you're a heartless bastard.'

'Oh, it's no mask,' Sherlock says bitterly.

'I don't believe that,' John responds calmly.

'Why?' Sherlock snaps, turning on John and pacing towards him. 'Are you truly so dense that you cannot see the truth right in front of your eyes? Your first deduction was correct, I am a monster.'

John shakes his head. 'Who are you trying to convince?'

'I heard you crying out in your sleep the other night,' Sherlock says, out of the blue. 'Another one of your pathetic little nightmares?'

John blinks, his eyebrows drawing together. 'Why are you saying this?'

'It's the sign of a weak mind, to allow yourself to become so governed by emotions. Did they help save the men you lost on the battlefield? I'm guessing not, going by what I heard last night. Tell me, who _was_ Billy?'

'Stop it,' John whispers, his face draining of colour.

'Unless you learn that these petty feelings of yours are only going to drag you down, you'll never be rid of the demons that plague you. Your friend is dead and there's no point you dwelling on it.'

'_Stop it!_' John shouts, letting loose with his fist. It connects solidly, just where he'd intended it to, and Sherlock flies backwards through the air, landing sprawled in a bale of hay. He clutches at his cheek and stares up at John with a strange sort of triumph lurking in his eyes. 'I don't know _why_ you just said those things,' John pants, standing over him. 'And I'm done trying to understand. The others were right about you. You truly are a monster. You're some sort of soulless machine and it wouldn't surprise me if you died alone and unmourned. I may have to stay here unless you order me to leave. But don't think for a _second_ that I will make it easy for you.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'I don't understand. Why did you say all that to him?'

'Look at me, Greg. Emotionless, unfeeling... how could anyone ever love me? And besides which, he deserves so much better. Believe me, it's better this way.' Sherlock swallows and draws himself up to his full height. 'At the end of a couple of months I will be dead and John and all the rest of you will be free to live a normal life. Don't try and pretend you don't want that.'

Greg sighs deeply. 'I do want a normal life, Sherlock. But at the same time, the curse made me stay, not you. And don't forget, I've been here since you were a kid. I _know_ you and I know that deep down you're not a bad person.'

'She picked me to curse – what does that tell you?'

Greg opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out. Sherlock spreads his hands in a _there you go_ gesture.

'I just think you should go a bit easier on him, that's all,' Greg mutters. 'Have you heard from your brother recently?'

Sherlock's expression darkens. 'He's in Tibet. Apparently he's heard of some voodoo type medicine which might help. The man's getting desperate.'

'Can you blame him?'

'Don't try to act like Mycroft and I were ever close,' Sherlock spits. 'He's doing all this to try and save the scandal.'

'What scandal?' Greg asks gently. 'Sherlock, he's trying to save your life. He's the only family you have left.'

'That never mattered growing up, why should it now?' Sherlock retorts. 'He doesn't have any interest in saving me. He just wanted to get out and away from his freakish, cursed little brother. Everything that happened to me was a direct assault on his rational, well-ordered universe.'

Greg shrugs in defeat, knowing it's pointless to try and reason with Sherlock when he's in this mood. Still, he gives it one more shot. He doesn't want to lose Sherlock, purely because he remembers who the man used to be.

'Sherlock, this man could be the one to finally break your curse. He's the likeliest person you've met in ten years.'

'Give it up Greg, you sound like a broken record,' Sherlock snaps. 'I'm telling you that there is no point in playing nice with Doctor John Watson because no-one, I repeat _no-one_, can ever love me.'

With that he spins on his heel and stalks off, his dark curls flying out behind him.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Is anybody going to tell me what's really going on in this house?' John demands, slamming a palm down on the table. The residual anger left from his encounter a few minutes ago with Sherlock hasn't left him. If anything, it's grown. He's tired of being left out of the loop, he's tired of the vague answers and loaded glances the staff exchange whenever they think he's not looking. Mrs Hudson attempts to look puzzled.

'I don't know what you mean, dear. It's just about lunch-time if you were wondering. Shall I make you some soup?'

'Don't change the subject!' John shouts. 'I want to know what's going on!'

'Nothing's going on, dear,' Mrs Hudson says, resting a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to placate him. 'Don't get yourself so worked up.'

John shrugs off her hand angrily. 'Don't bother about lunch for me,' he mutters. 'I'm going for a walk. I'm going to find out what's going on here.'

'John... wait!' Mrs Hudson implores, her tone anguished, but it's too late. John is already out of the door.

He storms through the castle, cataloguing each room and corridor as he goes. He's looking for the one place he hasn't yet been, the only place in the manor he has been explicitly forbidden to visit. After about twenty minutes of searching he comes across a stairway he hasn't seen before. Like the rest of the castle it's laden in dust and appears at first sight not to have been used for years. That is until John notices the singular footsteps marring the layer of dirt. Frowning he gazes upwards. The stairs lead into darkness, there's no way of knowing what's at the top.

'If nobody is going to tell me anything, I'll just have to find out for myself,' he mutters to himself, beginning the ascent.

At the top of the stairs there is a wall to his right and straight ahead. The only way to go is left, where there is a huge set of double doors. He rests a hand on the intricately designed doorknob for a moment, summoning his courage. There's an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach and dimly he recognises it as anxiety mixed with a little guilt. He was expressly forbidden to come here, after all. Mrs Hudson had told him that the West Wing was Sherlock's domain. However at the thought of Sherlock his anger flares once more, giving him the courage needed to push down on the handle.

The room he enters is blanketed in near darkness. The only light is from the wintry sun, shining through the cracks in the curtains. Like almost everywhere else in the castle, the windows have been covered. Immediately to his left is a large mirror, hanging on the wall. It has been shattered and the pieces still cling to the frame. John frowns. Surely Sherlock cannot hate his reflection? It had only taken him a second to ascertain that the man is beautiful with that luxurious hair and astonishing eyes. That opinion of him hasn't changed, despite the fact that Sherlock had turned out to be a bona-fide bastard. Perhaps that's it, he thinks absently. Perhaps he's hiding from the person he is inside. Slowly he wanders forwards, his gaze flicking from side to side, attempting to take everything in despite the gloom.

Odd objects are littered everywhere. A broken coatstand; a table and chair set; an ornate old wardrobe. The dust is ever present, muffling his footsteps on the worn carpet, shrouding the collection of furniture in dirt. It is clear that nobody ever comes here apart from Sherlock; that nobody has for a very long time. Busts in white marble of people John doesn't recognise stare down at him from niches in the walls. He shivers and rubs his arms as he walks slowly forwards. This place has a whole different tone to it from the rest of the manor. Nowhere else has he had this feeling of forboding, but also of sadness and of loss. This feeling is only exemplified when he notices a portrait hanging on the wall just ahead of him.

It's a picture of Sherlock, aged somewhere in his late teens, but it has been slashed to ribbons, the canvas hanging in shreds. Not knowing exactly why, John reaches out a shaky hand and folds the material back into place so that he's staring into Sherlock's catlike eyes.

There is a subtle difference however in this Sherlock and the man John knows. The Sherlock in the portrait looks a lot more carefree and there is an amused quirk to his lips as if he knows something nobody else is privy to. John is startled by the sheer vivacity emanating from the portrait. The man he knows seems half-dead most of the time; his eyes a lot duller.

'What happened to you?' John murmurs, letting the folds of material go and stepping back. He turns his attention forwards once more, to another set of doors opposite.

The next room is clearly Sherlock's bedroom. In one corner there's a massive four-poster bed which looks as though it's hardly ever been slept in. There are lab benches and counters set up along one wall with a large metal table in the centre. Various vials are simmering on low heats on the table, filling the air with acrid fumes. John wafts a hand in front of his face, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Seeing Sherlock's bed and all his personal belongings is making him feel like this was a really bad idea. He knows that he would be furious if anybody decided to snoop around his room uninvited. His anger at Sherlock's words has almost completely dissipated, leaving an emptiness mixed with sorrow in its place. Somewhere inside he knows that the other man hadn't really wanted to say those things. He also knows that for some reason he thought he should.

Just as he is making up his mind to leave and pretend he has never been here, something catches his eye. Almost directly opposite him is a set of elaborate french windows which open out onto a balcony. There is something out there, set on a table. It looks a little like an egg-timer. John frowns and crosses to the doors. He finds that they open with ease and, casting a glance behind him, he steps out and over to the item on the table.

It _is_ an egg-timer, covered with a glass dome. Absently he notices that the sand in the top has almost run out, there are only a few grains left. What really catches his attention, however, is the way the thing seems to glow. It isn't anything obvious but there's a subtle light hovering in a flickering miasma around the dome.

Tentatively he reaches out and grasps hold of the glass. When nothing disastrous happens he lifts it off and places it carefully on the table, wanting to get a closer look at the timer. Suddenly a door slams somewhere behind him. Gasping he spins around, almost knocking the timer to the floor as he does so. Horrified he watches as Sherlock leaps across the room to the balcony, grasping the timer and steadying it. Swiftly Sherlock replaces its glass covering and turns to glare at John.

He is truly taken aback by the fury flashing out of Sherlock's eyes. The other man's shoulders and fists are tensed, as if he is physically having to stop himself from striking John. John notices the red mark on Sherlock's cheekbone, the result of his punch, and feels horribly guilty.

'Why did you come here?' Sherlock growls, his tone low and deadly. John blinks and takes a step backwards.

'I'm sorry,' he mutters.

'Did Mrs Hudson not tell you these rooms were off-limits?' Sherlock demands, pacing forwards.

'She did but... but I didn't mean anything by it!' John protests, backing away still further. There is something wild in Sherlock's eyes which makes a chill run down John's spine. If the man had any kind of weapon right now, trained soldier or not, John wouldn't think much of his chances. 'I didn't mean any harm!' he tries, holding out his hands placatingly. It doesn't have much of an affect on Sherlock, who casts an anguished glance back at the egg-timer and then turns to glare at John once more.

'Do you realise what you could have _done_?' he roars, and John realises that he has never actually heard Sherlock raise his voice properly before. He can see the tendons on Sherlock's neck standing out like ropes. Sherlock raises an arm, the muscles in his tricep standing out. John believes for one second that the strike is aimed at him but Sherlock suddenly changes direction and lets loose at the french window, shattering one of the panes of glass. The shards explode into the bedroom, littering the floor.

'Please, just listen...' John begins.

'Get out!' Sherlock screams, his face flushing with colour. '_Get out!_'

John hesitates for a split second but when he sees Sherlock step towards him once more he limps as fast as he can out of the rooms and down the corridor. As he goes he can hear the sounds of furniture breaking and howled curses including words like _Imbecile_, _Worthless_ and _Stupid_. As he stumbles down the stairs, Mrs Hudson is there to greet him at the bottom.

'John...' she begins breathlessly. 'Please, stay!'

John has no idea what she has seen in his face which makes her so certain he is leaving but he finds he doesn't care. He has to leave; he has to get out. When he'd signed up for this he hadn't anticipated Sherlock.

'I don't care what I promised,' he pants as he grabs his jacket from the main foyer. 'I can't stay here another minute. And besides, the terms of employment only required me to be here until he sent me away. Well he has. And I wish you good luck with him.'

Outside the day is swiftly advancing towards late afternoon and John staggers to his car through the drifts of autumn leaves which have littered the expansive driveway. He'll have to send someone for his bags and belongings later, but as it is he isn't staying here for another second. He's had enough. Of cryptic answers; of gloomy gothic houses; of Sherlock Holmes. Casting one last glance back at Holmes Manor he puts the car into gear and speeds out of the gates, the gravel spitting out behind the wheels.


	6. 5: The Wolves

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Five**

_**The Wolves**_

He takes a break at the first civilisation he sees which is only about a mile away. He pulls in by a pub which advertises rooms to let. That sounds good to him. He can regroup for the night here and make his way home in the morning.

'A room for one night please,' he says, addressing the barman. He pauses for a moment. 'And a pint of Fosters.'

'Sure,' the man replies, drawing his pint. 'Room four is free. You can put up there. It'll be forty quid.'

'Fine,' John responds curtly. He pays for his room and the drink and retires to a table in the corner. As he drinks he glances around at the rest of the room. The pub is fairly empty, the few clientele he imagines are regulars by the way they are familiarly addressing the barman. One man opposite him, on the other side of the room, is reading the local paper. John can just make out the headline from where he's sitting.

_**LOCAL GANG STRIKES AGAIN**_

It's accompanied by a series of mugshots. As is usual with police photos the men all look particularly thuggish and nasty, glaring at the camera through heavily-lidded eyes. He realises that he has absolutely no clue what has gone on in the outside world during the time he spent at the manor. So when he goes to the bar for another pint, he casually asks the barman about the gang emblazoned across the front of the paper.

'You're kidding, right?' the man responds incredulously. 'Them's the Wolves. They've been all over the news for weeks. Where've you been?'

Good question, John thinks wryly but instead takes a sip of his pint and asks for more details.

'They're nasty,' the barman says in a low whisper. 'It's not just muggings. More often than not they kill their victims. The last one had about twenty stab wounds if you believe the news.' It is clear by his grim tone that he does and John blinks.

'So they're still at large?' he asks.

'More's the pity. The police round here are useless, they've got no idea. Five locals are dead and they're running around like blue-arsed flies.'

John indulges in a few more minutes of idle conversation before heading back to his table. By his fourth pint he is starting to feel a little light-headed and decides to take a quick ramble around the village before retiring to his room for the night.

The crisp autumnal wind hits him the moment he steps outside and he breathes deeply for a few moments before starting off at a brisk pace. He has no idea where he's headed but his sense of direction is good and he has no fears about getting lost, even in the almost inky darkness.

Twenty minutes later he is about ready to go back to the pub when he hears muffled footsteps approaching him. He thinks nothing of it until he sees four shadowy figures emerge from the gloom.

One of them lights a cigarette and by the brief flare of the lighter, John is able to pick out features. The Wolves gang. Sighing he stops walking. This is turning out to be one hell of a day.

'Haven't seen you around here before,' one of the shadows drawls, casting a glance to his companions.

'Yeah, I'm from out of town,' John responds shortly, starting to walk past them. The one on the far left throws out an arm to stop him.

'Not so fast. We've been looking for a bit of fun.'

The one with the cigarette takes a deep drag and then throws it to the ground, virtually unsmoked. 'Empty your pockets,' he snaps.

John takes a moment to size up the situation. If only he had his gun this would be no problem. As it is he's outnumbered four to one and the alcohol is still affecting his reflexes. Slowly he begins to turn out his pockets and hands his wallet, phone, keys and some chewing gum to the biggest of the gang.

The man examines them cursorily, slings a rucksack off his back and empties them into it. Replacing his bag he then turns his attention back to John.

'Cheers. Usually they put up more of a fight.'

'I flatter myself that I'm not that stupid. Four to one aren't good odds.'

'Hey, we bagged a smart one! Let's see how clever you are against these, eh?'

Four knives appear and John begins to back away, his hands raised. It's never really been his style to edge away from a fight but he knows a losing situation when he sees one. After a couple of steps, however, he finds that he's managed to back against one of the many trees which border the lane.

The four advance before he can move any further, the leader presses the advantage, holding his knife against John's throat. John swallows, his adam's apple bobbing against the steel. He can feel it pressing against his windpipe.

'Please,' he gasps, hating himself for begging but he really has no choice, 'stop.'

'Stop? Oh no, we're just getting started.' His assailant turns to his gang. 'How many times d'you reckon we can stab him until he dies from bloodloss?'

'How does none work for you?'

John starts, the movement causing the blade to press deeper into his throat. He knows that voice. Why is he here?

The attention of the gang is distracted, they take a few steps backwards and in that moment John feels a hand grasp his arm. Suddenly he is hauled sideways, away from the tree. Stumbling over a root he falls to the ground. Blinking hard he cranes his neck and glimpses a slender, dark figure standing just in front of him, in between him and the gang.

'Who are you, some kind of good vigilante?' one of the men sniggers, running a finger along the blade of his knife.

'Hardly,' Sherlock responds. In the next second he has leapt into action. From his vantage point on the ground, John isn't entirely sure what he's seeing. It seems like Sherlock is pulling some serious martial art moves. He is fluid and swift, one moment in one place and the next somewhere different. The leader falls first to a powerful roundhouse kick in the head. Seconds later a second collapses, clutching his face and moaning in agony. The last two look a little anxious. John hauls himself to his feet and tries to figure out what is going on.

'Sherlock?' he mutters.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He's busy dealing with the last two gang members who have converged on him as one. John starts forward just as Sherlock knocks one of the thugs flying towards a tree.

It's almost like something out of _The Matrix_, John thinks absently. He half expects Sherlock to begin defying gravity running up trees. He begins moving forward again.

'Sherlock!' he calls louder, 'behind you!'

The last gang-member has been creeping up, his knife outstretched. At John's call Sherlock rolls to the side and flicks his foot out in a nifty move which results in the last thug tripping and falling to the ground. Coolly Sherlock gets to his feet, grabs the man's head and slams it down against a protruding rock.

There is silence in the lane. The prone forms of the four men lie scattered where they fell either on the lane or in the woods surrounding it. John holds onto a tree, scarcely able to believe what he has just seen. Sherlock is standing a couple of feet away from him and, now that John really looks at him, he's swaying slightly.

The next second Sherlock crumples to the ground. John stares at him and bites his lip. He doesn't have any responsibility to the other man. The man who has made his life miserable for the past few weeks for no apparent reason. The man who has mocked and insulted him about deeply traumatic instances from his past.

But, no. He's a _doctor_. He is supposed to help people in need. He can't just leave Sherlock here, in the company of four gang-members who may well be regaining their senses soon. And besides, the only reason Sherlock is here now, injured and unconscious on the ground is because of him. Sherlock was protecting _him_. Hastily he runs to the prone body of the gang-member who took his belongings and claws them back out of the bag. Brilliant, there isn't any reception on his mobile.

'Hang on,' he murmurs, beginning to run back down the lane. 'I'm going to get help, Sherlock.'

When he reaches the pub he heads inside to ask if he can use their phone.

'Sorry, it's out of order at the moment,' the barman responds. 'Besides which, I don't see why I'd lend it out to help Mr Holmes. The man's a monster.'

John doesn't stay and argue. He is already aware of the hostile atmosphere which came into being the moment he said Sherlock's name and he is running out of time. Swiftly he crosses to his car and drives the short distance to the lane where the ambush occurred.

He parks as close as he can to Sherlock, then gets out and kneels beside the taller man. In the dark he can still see the blood streaking Sherlock's clothes and the asphalt of the lane.

'Shit,' he mutters to himself, slinging an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and heaving him upright. With some effort he manages to drag Sherlock's limp form over to the car and into the back seats.

He drives off as fast as he dares, considering that he's had four pints of lager. Back to the place he swore he'd never return to again. Holmes Manor.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Jesus, what happened?'

Greg meets them at the door, having buzzed to let John in through the gates. He lends a hand in getting Sherlock out of the car and into the house. By this point Sherlock is beginning to come to, albeit slowly.

'The Wolves gang,' John pants as they manoeuvre Sherlock up the stairs. 'Have you heard of them?'

'You kidding? Everyone round these parts has.'

'Yeah, well they attacked me. Then, all of a sudden, there was Sherlock.' John glances at Greg over Sherlock's lolling head. 'Did you know he knew martial arts?'

'Of course,' Greg responds blithely, pushing open the door to the West Wing. 'His parents paid for him and Mycroft to have lessons when they were kids. Mycroft never really took to it, he was never the most active of children. Sherlock was a different story. He was obsessed. I think he's near a master now.'

'That wouldn't surprise me,' John replies, thinking back on the moves Sherlock had pulled. 'He was incredible. If it wasn't for him I'd be dead, no question.'

'I did wonder where he was going,' Greg murmurs as they approach Sherlock's bed. 'After you left he was storming round in a temper for ages. Then, suddenly, he left. For the first time in nearly seven years he just went out the gates at a run.'

'Wait, he hasn't left the house in seven years?' John asks incredulously.

'It's a long story,' Greg responds, giving John an apologetic shrug.

'One of these days somebody is going to tell me what's going on, right?'

'Perhaps,' Greg says, grinning. They glance at each other and nod before tipping Sherlock onto the bed. He groans in pain.

'It looks like the cuts are quite superficial,' John says, snapping into doctor mode. 'He'll need a bit of looking after but he should make a full recovery.'

'What can I do?' Greg asks, looking a little lost.

'Bring me a bucket of warm water, some rags, antisceptic if you have any and some bandages. He's lucky that these don't require stitches otherwise he'd have had to go to hospital.'

'No problem,' Greg says, already backing out of the room.

Sighing John takes a seat next to the bed and examines his patient. Sherlock's hair is matted with drying blood and sweat. His skin is icy to the touch and there are various shallow knife cuts littered all over his chest and arms. Idly John reaches out a hand and brushes a clump of dark hair away from Sherlock's pale forehead.

At that moment Sherlock's eyes snap open and John withdraws his hand. 'How are you feeling?' he asks coolly, leaning back in his chair.

'Never better,' Sherlock responds sarcastically, his eyes fixed on John. 'What's the damage then? _Doctor_?'

John purposefully ignores the barbed comment and continues his mental list of Sherlock's injuries. Luckily Greg arrives in the next few minutes and hands John everything he needs.

'Mrs Hudson found some iodine in the cupboard,' Greg mutters. 'I hope that'll do as antisceptic.'

'That'll be fine,' John says, waving him away. 'I've got it from here.'

'Oh that's reassuring,' Sherlock says caustically. 'Doctor John Watson's on the case.'

'Will you just shut up?' John returns, almost laughing at the look of shock that crosses Sherlock's face. He imagines nobody's ever spoken to him like that in quite a while. Greg, sensibly, backs out of the room and shuts the door behind him.

'You'll need to take your shirt off,' John says. Sherlock obeys, wincing as the fabric pulls against some of the wounds.

'This might sting a little,' John says, dipping a rag in the warm water. He applies some iodine and touches the rag to the first gash. Sherlock hisses between his teeth, curses quite colourfully and tries to yank his arm away. John sighs and pins his wrist to the bed.

'You're not going to make this easy are you?' he murmurs. 'By the way if you hold still, it won't hurt quite as much.'

'Oh, thank you for those pearls of wisdom,' Sherlock snipes. 'If you hadn't gone running off we wouldn't be in this situation.'

'Well if you hadn't acted like such a complete pillock I wouldn't have left. And I did _not_ run, I drove.' He smirks.

'Need I remind you that you were explicitly forbidden from coming in here?' Sherlock says icily.

'Need I remind you that slavery was abolished in eighteen-thirty-three?'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and an unwilling smile crosses his face. 'Touché doctor.'

John finishes cleaning the cuts and examines the results with a critical gaze. 'Well, that's all done. Good news, I think you'll live.'

He's hoping for another smile but instead Sherlock's expression darkens. John knows when to remain silent and so doesn't push the point. Instead he swallows.

'Thank you,' he says awkwardly. Sherlock glances at him.

'What for?'

'Saving my life,' John responds shortly, rubbing at the hairs on the back of his neck. 'I would've... well, it would have been tricky if you hadn't shown up.'

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, an unfathomable expression on his face. 'You're welcome,' he says eventually, turning his attention to the blanket. 'How long do I have to stay cooped up here?'

John, happy with the switch to less turbulant emotional waters, sighs heavily. 'Any normal person I'd say at least a couple of days. For you, a couple of hours should be fine.'

Sherlock scowls as if to say that a couple of hours is far too long to relax in bed. John glances around the room, searching for inspiration.

'What's that experiment you've got going on there?' he asks, gesturing at the lab table and all the simmering apparatus.

'Nothing really,' Sherlock says dismissively. 'Just something to distract me.'

'From what?' John asks, his words coming out without any interference from his brain.

'My life,' Sherlock responds bluntly, staring in the opposite direction. His tone indicates that's absolutely all he's willing to say on the subject so John presses for more information about the experiment.

'It looks complicated,' he mutters.

'Not really,' Sherlock says casually. 'It's simply a test to see the difference in blood coagulation in different areas. I have a feeling it might be helpful to the police, if they deign to use something produced by an amateur of course.'

'Sounds to me like you're hardly an amateur,' John replies, laughing slightly. He is rewarded by a slow smile crossing Sherlock's face.

'You're a very unique person, John Watson,' he says eventually. John grimaces, unsure whether to take that as a compliment.

'Thanks. Listen, about dinner, do you want something brought up?'

'I'm not hungry,' Sherlock responds instantly.

'That's as may be, but you're eating whether you like it or not. I repeat, would you like it brought up?'

Sherlock scowls but John merely folds his arms across his chest and fixes Sherlock with what he hopes is his most intimidating stare.

'Fine. I'll have it brought up. But only if you have it here with me.'

'What, dinner?' John asks, shocked out of his complacency.

'You're not going to refuse again are you? That's getting tedious. And besides, I'm not telling you. I'm...' he hesitates, fiddling with the blanket, 'I'm asking you. Have dinner with me. Please.'

John quirks an eyebrow. 'Well, seeing as you asked so nicely, I accept. I'll dash down and tell Mrs Hudson. Don't move from that spot.'

Sherlock makes a mock army salute and John chokes out a laugh before disappearing out of the door.


	7. 6: Baby Steps

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Six**

_**Baby Steps**_

Sherlock watches as John vanishes and lays back against the pillows, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, deep in thought. How could he have allowed this to happen? How could he have fallen so far in such a short space of time?

He had fully resigned himself to dying as a result of the curse. He was able to look at himself with an outsider's eye and realised there was nothing about him anybody would ever be able to love. Once he'd accepted that, it was easy to fall into his assigned role as a monster and unfeeling bastard.

Nobody had done a thing to change that, until John Watson arrived. For some reason the man doesn't respond in the way normal people do with him. He'd thrown his cruellest deductions at John, he'd belittled him and even thrown him out of the manor and yet he remains, steadfast and true.

Sherlock couldn't say how he'd known John was in trouble. One moment he'd been absolutely furious, storming around the manor attempting to destroy anything in sight. The rage had consumed him. John had betrayed him, gone against his word deliberately. The next thing he knew there was something tugging hard at his left rib. It felt like almost like a magnetic force, drawing him out of the manor, out of the gates; towards the village.

He'd followed it, knowing that it was important, he'd never felt anything like it before. He wasn't sure he could explain it to anyone who'd asked. And what he'd found when the tugging had finally stopped was John Watson, in fear for his life, being threatened by four thugs who weren't worthy to kneel at John's feet.

He'd recalled immediately the lessons his sensai had taught him, he could remember them with perfect clarity. For the first time he was glad to have a superior intellect. He'd leapt into action, the moves coming easily and without effort. All the time he'd been aware of John, he'd been able to keep them away from the doctor; keep their attention fixed on him.

That was something he wasn't willing to address. Why he'd been so focussed on keeping somebody else from harm. Why he felt like a little part of him might collapse if John was even minorly injured.

Then the world had gone fuzzy and blurred around the edges. Darkness had taken over and he'd been woken in the manor with John somehow still beside him. After the way he'd treated John he would have expected the man to have left him unconscious and bleeding but instead, not only had he taken Sherlock safely back to the manor but is now tending his injuries.

_Perhaps_ _Greg is right,_ Sherlock thinks, keeping his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the doctor to return. _Perhaps he is the one_. He is sure nobody else would have stayed around for so long. _Perhaps it might be worth... trying_.

'I told Mrs Hudson,' John says unneccessarily, looking a little perplexed at Sherlock's continued scrutiny. 'She says it'll be about half an hour.'

'What am I supposed to do until then?' Sherlock asks petulantly. John smiles slightly.

'Well, you could have a wash. Your hair...' he pauses, obviously trying to think of a way to put it delicately, 'well, it's a mess. You've got blood and all sorts in it.'

'Be specific, John. What do you mean by _all sorts_?'

'Well,' John says, plucking something out and dropping it in Sherlock's lap, 'this.'

'A twig?' Sherlock responds, bemusedly, twirling it in his fingertips.

'Believe me, it's not the only one,' John says, stifling laughter. 'You need to wash your hair. Then get into something more comfortable, eat dinner and rest.'

'Sounds unbearably tedious,' Sherlock mutters, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up. 'How do people cope with being injured?'

'A lot better than you, I'd imagine.'

Sherlock scowls and begins making his way to the bathroom. Halfway there he stops and sways for a moment. John gets up and anxiously starts towards him.

'You alright?'

'Fine,' Sherlock snaps. 'Your constant fussing is getting irritating. Can't you just leave me alone?'

'I thought you wanted me to have dinner with you,' John says evenly.

'That was clearly a momentary lapse in judgement,' Sherlock bites out. 'I can't think of anything worse than having to endure your dull conversation.'

'Right,' John says, a little shakily. 'Fine. I'll... have mine in the dining room then.' He has almost made it to the door when Sherlock calls after him.

'John?'

Taking a deep breath he clenches his hands into fists and turns around, his expression taut. 'What now?'

His eyes widen slightly as he takes in Sherlock. The other man's facial muscles are working spasmodically as though he is fighting hard to say something.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said it.' Sherlock isn't meeting his gaze and John's expression softens.

'You're frustrated, I get it. But taking it out on me isn't fair. I'm only trying to help. God knows why because you're an insufferable git.'

Sherlock's eyes flash but he restrains himself from saying something inflammatory in return. _Progress_, John thinks, flinging himself into an armchair. He waves a commanding arm in the direction of the bathroom. With a huff, Sherlock disappears and a few moments later there is the sound of the shower water.

'Be careful of the gashes!' John shouts. He isn't too worried though. The wounds are clean and very shallow, not really more than cuts.

He is still sitting in the chair when Sherlock emerges about fifteen minutes later. He has a crisp white towel wrapped around his waist and his curls have been pulled straight so his hair falls to below his shoulders.

'Feel better?' John asks, averting his eyes, although he's not entirely sure why he's doing so. As a doctor he's seen a lot of nudity and at least Sherlock has a towel to preserve his dignity.

Sherlock nods curtly and begins rifling around in a massive oaken chest of drawers for some clothes.

'Are you decent?' John asks after a few minutes, staring steadfastedly at a picture on the wall.

'Why would it bother you if I weren't?' Sherlock asks. John turns to glance at him and is relieved to see he's dressed in some black tracksuit bottoms and a thin grey t-shirt. 'Aren't you a doctor?'

John splutters for a second before coming up with a reply. 'That doesn't mean I want to see naked bodies all the time when I'm off duty, thank you.'

'Hardly naked,' Sherlock responds mildly. 'I had a towel on.'

'Mrs Hudson should be up with dinner any minute,' John says, stopping the conversation from straying into dangerous waters. 'I think she made a lasagne.'

'Sounds delightful,' Sherlock drawls, draping himself elegantly on the bed.

'How are the injuries feeling?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'A little sore. But I've had worse.'

'Really?'

'Yes. There've been a couple of times when I got my ankle caught in a caltrap.'

John raises his eyebrows. 'A caltrap? How on earth...?' His expression suddenly clears with understanding. 'Ah. At the gates.'

'I see Greg's been spouting off again,' Sherlock says wryly.

'That's awful,' John says. 'Why do the villagers hate you so much?'

'I'm rude, abrasive, arrogant and care nothing for the emotions of others,' Sherlock replies blankly. 'What's not to hate?'

John cocks his head to one side. 'You are all those things sometimes but I think there's more to you than meets the eye. I don't think you were always like this.'

'And what would give you that idea?'

John shrugs. 'There's a portrait outside.' He gestures towards the door. 'You look younger and happier but it can't have been painted that long ago.' He waits but there is no answer from Sherlock who merely shifts on the bed and pointedly avoids looking at John. 'Sherlock?'

Just then there's a timid knock on the door, and with a last suspicious glance at Sherlock, John gets up and answers it. Mrs Hudson stands in the threshold with a covered tray in her hands.

'Put it down, then go,' Sherlock snaps.

The housekeeper blinks and then scurries forward to carefully place the tray on a low side table. John spins slowly on the spot and fixes Sherlock with a furious glare.

'Apologise to Mrs Hudson. And then you can thank her for making dinner and bringing it up.'

'That's her _job_, John. She's the help.'

'Don't worry about it, dear,' Mrs Hudson mutters, moving towards the door again. 'We're all used to it.'

'Well, you shouldn't have to be. Being the owner of this house and the employer of the staff doesn't give him the right to act like little Lord Fauntleroy.' He turns back to Sherlock. 'Apologise. Now. Or I'm leaving and this time I won't be coming back.'

He has no idea whether this bluff will actually work. He's only going on the fact that Sherlock came after him and saved him. Presumably that means that for some reason Sherlock doesn't want him to go anywhere. And besides, he doesn't really _want_ to leave. Not anymore. There is something going on in this house and somehow he will get to the bottom of it. And while he's at it, he has a feeling he wouldn't mind finding out more about Sherlock.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock startles John out of his reverie. He glances up to find that Sherlock is staring fixedly at the blanket but his words are clearly addressed to Mrs Hudson. 'Thank you for dinner.'

Mrs Hudson flushes with pleasure, squeaks something unintelligible in reply and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

'See? That wasn't too hard was it?' John asks, handing Sherlock a plate of steaming lasagne. Sherlock balances the lasagne on his lap and takes a bite. He doesn't respond.

_Baby steps_, John thinks to himself, smiling slightly.

XXXXXXXXXX

For the next few days Sherlock stays in the West Wing recovering from his injuries and John finds himself, if not a welcome, then at least an accepted visitor to the man's inner sanctum. It's as if the gang attack has drawn them closer together in some strange way. John no longer takes offence at Sherlock's rudeness or insults and Sherlock, in his way, seems to manage to go longer and longer without offending John in some way.

About a week after the incident they are in the West Wing trying to decide what to do with the rest of the afternoon. Sherlock is all for completing an apparently vitally important experiment. John, after taking one look at what said experiment involved, refuses point blank and suggests a game of Cluedo after spotting a decrepit and dusty box in the corner of the room.

'I've never actually played it,' Sherlock admits, eyeing the game with deep scepticism as John lays out the board.

'You haven't? I'd have thought it would be right up your street. The aim of it is to solve a murder...'

'What are the parameters?' Sherlock cuts in at once. John blinks.

'Sorry?'

'I mean I presume we know weather conditions, footprints and other evidence like tobacco ash or a lingering perfume scent. I also imagine we'll get cards or some such thing stating the time of death and who the body was found by. What about the victim? I suppose we know all his relationships with the other characters in this game, one of whom I'm presuming is the murderer. Unless it was a suicide? Is there a provision for suicide?'

Very slowly John begins to fold up the board. Sherlock looks bewildered. 'Why are you packing it away? We haven't even started yet.'

'Cluedo was a stupid idea,' John says hastily. 'Why don't we do something else?'

'Like what?' Sherlock asks sceptically.

'I dunno... talk perhaps?'

'Fine,' Sherlock says, settling himself on a chair and waving an arm imperiously in John's direction. 'Talk.'

'You are aware a conversation is supposed to be a reciprocal thing?' John clarifies, raising an eyebrow. When Sherlock doesn't respond he sighs and racks his brain for something to say.

'So, I was born in London...'

'Hang on. Is this going to be your entire life history? I have no time for such drivel.'

John blinks, gets to his feet and heads towards the door, trying to ignore the nagging disappointment in his gut. He'd hoped that Sherlock was beginning to open up, to trust him. He'd hoped that they were beginning to build a tentative friendship. And then the man had to open his mouth.

'John, wait.' Sherlock's tone is imploring but John doesn't look back, although he does pause.

'No, Sherlock. I gave you your chance. I've tried to tolerate your rudeness and the constant insults but if everything that comes out of your mouth is going to be sarcastic or hurtful then I think I am justified in removing myself from your presence. We can ignore each other until my imprisonment in this blasted manor comes to an end.' Feeling that he might have been unnecessarily dramatic in terming it _imprisonment_, John squares his shoulders and strides out of the room.

Had he glanced back he would have seen Sherlock's face crumple and his fingernails dig into his palms so hard that crimson half-moons appear on the pale skin.


	8. 7: Parting Company

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Seven**

_**Parting Company**_

Over the next few days, John attempts to busy himself as best he can. He goes for walks with Greg. He mucks out the horses and goes for short rides. He writes on his blog and tries to rid his mind of Sherlock bloody Holmes.

It doesn't work very well, and one reason for this is that Sherlock has taken to trailing after him around the manor. He hasn't yet approached John directly but in everything he does the doctor is aware that Sherlock is lurking close by.

After about a week of this John finally snaps. He is attempting to brush Beauty's mane when a clang and a muffled curse reaches his ears. Turning his head he sees Sherlock hopping on one foot and clutching at his toe while a horseshoe which had been hanging on the wall now rattles gently on the cobblestones of the stables.

'Alright. What are you up to?' John asks, folding his arms across his chest as he eyes the other man closely. Sherlock rubs at his foot one more time and then stands up straight, attempting a defiant posture.

'I have no idea what you mean John. These are my stables, I have more of a right to be here than you do.'

'Don't give me that crap,' John says bluntly. 'I know you've been following me for the past week. You're not as subtle as you think you are. And remember I used to be a soldier. We were trained to know when somebody is hiding nearby.'

Sherlock inclines his head. 'Fine. I was following you.'

'Care to tell me why?'

'Experiment,' Sherlock bites out, avoiding John's eyes.

John stares at him. 'I don't believe you. What experiment?'

There is a split second where Sherlock's eyes widen with sudden panic and John pounces. 'Ha! There isn't one, is there? Why can't you just tell me the truth?'

'Because the truth's impossible.'

'Try me,' John responds. Sherlock heaves a deep sigh.

'Because I missed our talks. I missed spending time with you. It felt like we were almost friends.'

'Why is that so impossible?' John asks, a confused frown on his face.

'It's a long story.'

'Tell me,' John insists, stepping closer.

'I can't have friends,' Sherlock says slowly, after a long pause. 'It's something I'm cursed with.'

'Sherlock Holmes, always with the melodrama,' John sighs, folding his arms across his chest. 'Can't you give me a straight and honest answer for once in your life?'

'I _have_ John,' Sherlock says, sounding strained. 'Honestly I can't tell you the full story. I can't right now. But it means a lot to me that you're here.'

'Could've fooled me,' John says grumpily, fixing Sherlock with a baleful glare but there's something softer around the edges of his eyes. 'Do you really mean that? Do you really want me here?'

'I'm surprised you even have to ask,' Sherlock replies. 'I would've thought it was obvious.'

'Of course you would,' John says, somewhat fondly. 'It's not obvious to me. What am I supposed to think when you promise to try and guard your tongue and then come out with some bollocks like _"I think your life story is complete drivel"_?'

'I never said that,' Sherlock says awkwardly.

'Close enough,' John fires back, a smirk hovering around his lips.

'Often I say things I don't mean when it comes to you. I think I have some sort of autopilot and I revert to the man I was before you came here. But I like you, John, and I don't want you to leave. So I'm going to amend my promise. I can't say that I will never insult you again. What I will promise is that almost all of the time I won't really mean it.'

'_Almost_ all of the time?' John says, cracking a smile. Sherlock smiles hesitantly back.

'I have to allow some room for when you are truly irritating me.'

'Oh naturally,' John smirks.

There is silence for a few minutes, each man lost in his own thoughts. Eventually Sherlock, shifting uncomfortably, clears his throat to get John's attention.

'What is it?'

'I was... wondering if you'd... care to have dinner with me tomorrow night,' Sherlock mumbles, his eyes trained on the cobblestones, a flush rising up his cheeks. John is bewildered.

'Don't we usually eat together in the evenings now?'

'Yes, but...' Sherlock trails off and John raises an eyebrow.

'What is it, Sherlock?'

'I was hoping it would be a date,' is the soft, barely audible answer. John rocks back against the wooden door of the stall, well and truly taken aback. He hadn't been expecting that. A date – with Sherlock Holmes. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought a scenario like that would come about. He'd almost come to the decision that the man was asexual. He seemed to have zero interest in either gender, and certainly not in _John_. Although... that wasn't quite true was it? Over the past couple of days, perhaps weeks, John has noticed odd little glances that Sherlock has been sending his way. There's been a palpable tension between them and it's taken until now for John to recognise it for what it is. Attraction.

He's had a few dalliances with men in the past, mainly in the army, the idea of being with a man isn't what's scaring him. It's the idea of being with a man like Sherlock. Despite the improvements made to their relationship recently, he can't help but remember what his employer was like at the beginning. Uncaring, unfeeling, cruel and cold. Recently he's seen differences, Sherlock has seemed like a whole new man. But which is the real Sherlock? Is the uncaring bastard persona a mask? Or is it who Sherlock is deep down?

'Forget it, it was obviously a dreadful idea. I believe I may have mistaken the signs.'

He hears Sherlock's voice as if from a great distance and with an effort clears his mind so that he can concentrate on the present. With some alarm he notices that Sherlock is no longer in front of him. Glancing around he spots him standing by the doorway to the stables, his head turned back toward John. Hurriedly he moves forward, closer to Sherlock. How long had he been lost in his head?

'No! Sherlock, don't go.'

'You're clearly uncomfortable, John. I have no wish to inflict my presence on you.'

'Just hold on a sec. You caught me unawares, that's all.'

Slowly Sherlock turns back to face him. Awkwardly they look at each other. There's a myriad of questions clamouring inside John's head.

'What signs?' is what he comes out with.

'You're attracted to me. Your pulse is elevated when I'm near, your pupils grow larger and very often there's a flush to your cheeks. Like now. All of which are clear and obvious signs of arousal.'

John frowns, unable to form a response for awhile. 'Right. And you're attracted to me as well?'

'Evidently. Otherwise I would not have made the offer of a date.'

John has to hide a smile. 'Of course.' Turning serious he moves a little closer. 'Sherlock, are you sure about this? You've never shown the slightest inclination before and now suddenly you're Casanova?'

'Hardly,' Sherlock scoffs. 'Casanova was famous for having a multitude of lovers. I've had none. Therefore...'

'Wait, wait, wait,' John says, halting him in his tracks. 'None? Are you telling me you've never...?'

Sherlock, his flush now more pronounced than ever, spits out his next words. 'Yes. Is that a problem?'

'No, not a problem. Just unexpected.'

'Why?'

John gestures vaguely at him. 'Well, I mean look at you. You're gorgeous. I'd have thought you'd have had, I dunno, _dalliances_ at the very least.'

'Other people are dull, boring and generally a waste of my time,' Sherlock announces, pausing for a moment before adding, 'apart from you, of course.'

'Oh good, what a glowing recommendation,' John replies smirking. 'So, a date? Tomorrow?'

'Eight o'clock. The old ballroom. Mrs Hudson will show you where it is. Wear something nice.'

John frowns slightly. 'Nice? I didn't bring a suit with me.'

'Your old dress suit will do. I saw it hanging in your closet.'

'Of course you did,' John says, sighing. 'Tomorrow it is.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen with a sense of triumph and something akin to hope glowing deep in his chest. Mrs Hudson must see this in his face when he enters because instantly she's at his side.

'Did it go well?' she asks tremulously, as if almost scared to hear the answer.

'It did,' he replies as solemnly as he can manage. 'Set up the ballroom for eight o'clock tomorrow evening. You may have to show John where to go.'

Greg comes over, a beaming smile on his face, as Mrs Hudson throws her arms around Sherlock's middle.

'Well done. Progress is being made, eh?'

'It's about time. He's only got days left.'

'Shut up, Anderson,' Greg snaps.

'Well come on. A couple of days isn't enough time to fall in love with somebody. John should've arrived at least a year before he did. Then we might have been in with a chance.'

'You don't know what you're talking about,' Greg says scathingly, but it's too late. He catches sight of Sherlock's face. 'Sherlock, don't listen to him,' he says urgently. 'It's never too late to try. John likes you, he really does. Please?'

Gathering himself, Sherlock forces the hurt and agony off his face. 'Of course I'll try, Greg. I've got nothing else to do, have I?'

He strides from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson puts her hands on her hips, turning toward Anderson. 'You stupid man. How could you say that to him?'

'S'only the truth,' Anderson announces waspishly. 'It's mean to get his hopes up. And besides, he's got to love John as well. Did anybody even think of that? So far it seems like he's just been concentrating on getting John to love him. I don't think he's even thought about his own feelings. Or lack of, more to the point.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The next evening finds John in a state of semi-panic in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He managed to get the uniform on okay, but now he's not entirely sure it's fitting properly and privately he thinks he looks foolish. Like an overage kid playing at dress-up. He tugs at the collar one last time as he hears the knock on the door.

'Oh, John dear. You look so handsome!' Mrs Hudson exclaims as she enters. 'Sherlock won't know what's hit him.'

'I'm pretty sure he will. A crippled ex-army doctor trying to fit into his old uniform,' John mutters deprecatingly, still twisting this way and that.

'Now, none of that nonsense,' Mrs Hudson admonishes, taking his arm and dragging him away from the mirror. 'Let's get on down to the ballroom. Sherlock'll be waiting for you.'

Sure enough, as John enters the the ballroom, thanks to a little push from Mrs Hudson, Sherlock is indeed waiting. A table is set up at the end closest to them, laden with plates set out in a buffet style. A pile of thick, comfy cushions is lying on the floor nearby.

John turns to Sherlock, confused.

'I thought this might be less intimidating,' Sherlock says sheepishly. 'I didn't really want our first date to be us sitting at an overly elaborate table awkwardly. I thought we'd be more at ease just eating off our knees, sitting on cushions.'

It's amazing how the tension lifts from John at his words. He laughs and grabs an empty plate from the end of the table. 'You couldn't be more right.'

They get settled, John with a full plate of food and Sherlock with what looks like a child's portion which he picks at.

'Mrs Hudson's a brilliant cook,' John remarks, his mouth full of cold chicken leg. 'This is excellent.'

'I'm glad you approve,' Sherlock replies. 'Time was when she used to have a full complement of kitchen staff working under her to feed an entire household. Now she just has myself and the servants to cook for. And you, of course.'

'What happened here, Sherlock?' John asks, aware as the words leave his lips that he probably isn't going to get an answer. Sherlock however looks pensive and after a few seconds lifts his eyes to meet John's.

'This place used to be full, almost everyday, with people if you can imagine that, John. Everywhere you went you would bump into somebody. Not just family but friends and very distant relations. They'd all come here for long stays and some would overlap until it got to the point when it would hardly ever just be myself, my parents and my brother. My parents weren't particularly nice people but they weren't cruel either. They were simply self-obssessed and loved having company so they could lord their success over them. And the company kept coming because my family were famous for their parties.'

Already this is more than he's heard from Sherlock on the subject of his past since he's been here. John decides to keep his mouth shut so as not to disrupt Sherlock's talkative mood.

Sherlock glances down at the roll of bread he's picking to pieces. 'I never really fit in with my family. You were right when you said you didn't think I'd always been this way. I was never really normal but I was a lot nicer before.'

'Before what?' John asks, unable to help himself.

Sherlock glances at him but doesn't respond immediately. When he does, it's clear he's decided to avoid John's question.

'In my parents' eyes, they only had one child. Mycroft was the firm and fast favourite. I just drifted in and out of their perception at random. I tried hard to make them proud of me, to make them _notice_ me, but it was no use. By the time I was in my teenage years I was pretty much completely closed off from any sort of emotion. It had never got me anywhere, indeed all it did was cause me pain and misery. I decided I would be better off without it. However no matter how hard I tried, I could never fully become heartless. My parents regard of me still _mattered_ for some reason.'

'And then what happened? Something happened to make you the way you are today, I know it did. And I don't understand why you won't tell me.'

'Because it's unbelievable, John. I honestly _can't_ tell you. Let's just say that long years and ill fortune have done their work. Until you.'

John looks at Sherlock, startled. The other man's catlike eyes are staring right back at him, for once completely guileless and honest.

'You've awoken something in me I thought long dead. Somehow you've brought this place to life.'

John coughs awkwardly, not entirely sure what to say to this statement. He hasn't been aware that he's done anything much. Sherlock narrows his eyes and then sits back slightly.

'You don't realise it, but you've done a lot for all the servants here. And for me. I have to thank you for that.'

'It sounds like you've had a pretty tough time of it recently,' John remarks neutrally.

'That's putting it mildly,' Sherlock says, taking a sip of his wine.

The time passes and John finds that he's having an incredibly good time just sitting and talking with Sherlock. He attempts to get him to open up about what happened to him a few more times, but soon gives up. After all it's up to Sherlock and it isn't his business to intrude. Just as they're finishing the second bottle of wine Anderson and Greg enter, carrying between them an old gramophone.

'Just ignore us, pretend we're not here,' Greg stage-whispers to John as Anderson scowls and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'What's this?' John asks, smiling at Sherlock.

He shrugs a little defensively. 'I thought it might be nice to have some music. I believe it always sounds better on vinyl rather than those hideous CDs they have nowadays.'

'You sound like you're from the dark ages,' John teases, 'but I happen to agree with you.'

Beaming Sherlock gets up and crosses over to the gramophone, selecting a record with care and placing it under the needle. As the first strains of music begin to fill the ballroom John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

'Frank Sinatra? Really?'

Sherlock shrugs again. 'I do like some modern music, John. I find Frank Sinatra to be the least objectionable.'

'I'd hardly call him modern,' John laughs but gets up and moves over to join Sherlock, 'but fine, whatever.'

'Would you care to dance?' Sherlock asks, holding out a hand to John, who takes it willingly.

'You can waltz?' John asks disbelievingly as Sherlock twirls him about the dancefloor.

'Privileged family,' Sherlock reminds him dryly.

John relaxes and allows his body to melt into Sherlock's. It's the first time he's ever danced with a man and the feel of Sherlock's taut, hard chest flush against his sets his pulse racing and a blush rising to his cheeks.

At the end of the song Sherlock dips him and John beats ineffectually at his chest. 'Let me up! I'm not some damsel in a fairytale you know!'

Laughing Sherlock heaves him upright again. 'Sorry, just thought it would be more romantic.'

John steps away and gestures at the room. 'You've got this incredible ballroom, fantastic music and candlelight. I don't think you could get more romantic if you tried.'

There's a brief silence as Sherlock stares at John with an unfathomable look in his eyes. Eventually he glances toward the huge double doors at the end of the ballroom.

'How about some air? It's a beautiful night.'

'That sounds good,' John replies. He's feeling a little odd. He's known for some time that he has strong feelings toward Sherlock but tonight seems to have exacerbated them still further. Already he cannot imagine his life without the other man in it. He misses him when he's not there and finds himself craving his company. He laughs harder with Sherlock than he has with anybody else. He gets more frustrated and angry with Sherlock than he does with anybody else. He's already had more than a few sleepless nights when he's awoken with a pressing problem due to dreams of Sherlock. Sherlock sliding into his bed, kissing and touching him.

_Shit_. He knows exactly what this means. Has been in this precise state once before. Mary Morstan, his girlfriend back when he was seventeen. He'd loved her so much and she'd broken his heart. Cheated on him with his best friend. How clichèd. But then he's found life often is.

As these thoughts cross his mind he follows behind Sherlock until they're both standing outside on the balcony. The winter air is sharp and crisp, filled with the promise of snow. Sherlock leads him over to a stone bench right at the edge and they sit, staring out at the bare, wind-whipped branches of the trees.

'So, how are you finding it here?' Sherlock asks eventually, his strange eyes flickering up briefly to scan John's face.

John coughs awkwardly, having to think carefully before answering. 'It's beautiful, that's for sure. Although you really do need to pay more attention to the upkeep of this place. Why on earth don't you hire more help?'

'No point,' Sherlock replies flatly. 'After all it's just me rattling around here, now that my charming brother has flown the nest.'

'But all the windows...' John begins, stopping suddenly as Sherlock suddenly doubles over, coughing harshly. 'Are you alright?'

Sherlock doesn't answer for a few seconds, and when he does his voice is raspy. 'Fine. Something must have got lodged in my throat.'

'Sounded nasty,' John comments.

Sherlock glances at him again, an odd look in his eyes. 'So apart from the state of the house, you're happy here?'

'Yes, I suppose I am,' John replies honestly. 'It was tough at first, well you know that, but I do like being here with you.' He raises a sardonic eyebrow. 'I always wanted my life to be more interesting. When my sister and I moved here from London I thought I'd die of boredom. And you may be many things Sherlock Holmes but you are definitely not boring.'

'Thank God,' Sherlock drawls, coughing once more. John eyes him concernedly.

'You sure you're not coming down with something?'

'I'll be fine,' Sherlock chokes out, wiping at his streaming eyes. 'It's just a tickle. Nothing to worry about.'

John rolls his eyes but doesn't push it.

Sherlock, for his part, is close to panic although he feels he's concealing it well. During the past few days he's felt his overall health begin to deteriorate. It seems like he finally has his answer as to the manner in which he will leave this world. He should have known he wouldn't be lucky enough to die quickly. Curses, after all, are not meant to be pleasant. Until now he thinks he's done a fairly good job concealing his illness from John, quite a feat considering the man is a doctor and not a complete idiot.

And now his throat feels like somebody has vigorously scraped at it with rough sandpaper. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, giving the impression it could burst at any moment. On certain occasions he has found his hands trembling uncontrollably and has had to resort to clasping them together so as not to draw attention to it.

His head pounding, he eases closer to John on the bench. For some reason whenever he is in close proximity to the other man he feels calmer, more able to think clearly. For him John is like a heat source which he cannot help but gravitate towards, hoping that the warmth will ease the bone-deep chill he has started to feel in his chest.

The doctor twists towards him, his deep blue eyes glittering in the golden light spilling out from the ballroom.

'You're beautiful,' John whispers, looking rather surprised at himself for saying it. Sherlock leans closer toward him, his gaze flicking from John's eyes to his mouth and back again. John's tongue flicks out to moisten his lips in a typically anxious gesture. Sherlock can feel his heart racing but he doesn't think it's from the curse this time. Slowly he reaches out a hand, wanting to touch and feel...

The shrill of John's mobile shatters the moment. Sherlock jerks backward as if he's been physically slapped. John fumbles in his pockets and leaps off the bench as if it has suddenly become red-hot.

'Hello? Harry?'

Sherlock sighs and walks over to the balustrade. He leans over the edge, his elbows resting on the cool stone, allowing the wind to whip at his hair. He is aware of John's voice rising higher with stress and worry although he cannot discern the words.

Soon enough he hears John's footsteps pacing toward him and he schools his expression into one of casual concern.

'Everything okay?'

One look at John's face tells him the answer. The thin lips are pressed together and John's brows have knit together.

'It's my sister. She says that Jim's been hanging around the house more and more. Now she's started receiving threatening letters through the post. She's really worried.'

'Jim?'

John blinks. 'Oh, right, of course you don't know. Jim Moriarty, he's this creepy guy who's, well, he's obsessed with me. I don't know what he's capable of which is why I'm so worried. And Harry's going out of her mind.'

Sherlock pauses for a moment. He knows what he has to do and yet he wishes more than anything that he didn't.

'You should go to her,' he says, stifling a cough which threatens to rise up his throat.

John stares at him. 'Really?'

'She obviously needs you. I know how close you are with your sister. If this man is threatening her you should definitely go home. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't. _I'll_ never forgive myself if you don't.'

'You're sure?' John says, drawing closer to Sherlock. He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

For just a moment Sherlock allows himself to revel in the contact. The last he will ever have with the love of his life. And perhaps it is this which prompts him, desperately, to say:

'John, before you go. You have to know that... I love you. And, if you love me too, please just say it. For no other reason than if you mean it, please just say it.'

John freezes in place. _Love_? It's far too soon to start thinking of love, isn't it?

_Have you ever felt about anybody the way you've felt about Sherlock?_ A little voice in his head asks. He takes a step backwards from the younger man, shaking his head as he does so. He can't, after all it's only been a few months, how can he possibly have fallen in love with someobody after that amount of time?

_Can you imagine your life without him?_ the same irritating little voice asks and he pushes it right to the back of his mind. He doesn't need this added complication right now. And after all, he's only going back to make sure that Harry's alright. He'll be straight back.

Sherlock is staring at him, his eyes wide and unsure. John feels a twist of guilt in his stomach as he replies.

'Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not sure. I _like_ you, alright? Love... it's a big word. I'm not sure... I'll be straight back, I promise. I just need to check on Harry.'

Sherlock deflates right in front of him, his shoulders slump and his eyes grow dimmer. 'Of course, I understand John. You must go and be with your sister.' John nods, clasps him by the shoulder and turns to go. Sherlock suddenly reaches out and grabs his wrist, turning him back to face him.

'Please... don't forget me. Whatever happens...' he doubles over, coughing once again, '... don't forget me.'

'I couldn't,' John responds honestly. 'Anyway I'll be seeing you soon. Don't forget to take something for that cough of yours.'


	9. 8: Revelation

**Author's Note: First of all I just want to say a quick thank you for all the amazing reviews you guys have been leaving me. It means a lot that you're enjoying this story and gives me the inspiration to carry on writing! Thanks as well to all of you who have favourited or followed, it's good to know you're liking it. We're nearing the climax of the fic now as you may have guessed if you're familiar with Beauty and the Beast. If you're not (and if so **_**why**_** not? lol) then hold onto your knickers because the ride's about to get **_**very**_** bumpy (and angsty, which I apparently do best!)**

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Eight**

_**Revelation**_

Love, John thinks to himself as he speeds back towards his home village. What a peculiar notion it is. It can't be defined by any rational explanation. You either feel it or you don't and if you do there's no getting away from it. Besides which there are different kinds of love. There's 'storge', the love of family. 'Philia' the love between friends, 'agape' the love of a God or religion. And finally 'eros' which promotes sexual or romantic desire.

John thinks hard as he navigates the route back to his village. There are only two he could currently be feeling towards Sherlock and scarily for him it's easy to decide which. He knows how he feels about his mates in the army or those he has kept in contact with from school. He loves them, for sure. But not in the same way he loves Sherlock. He's said he loves them with no problem whatsoever. _I love you, man_.

Yet when Sherlock asked he couldn't answer him.

Eros love towards another man, he thinks to himself. And to think he'd told Jim that he wasn't gay. Yet the thought of being with Jim turns his stomach. As does the thought of being romantic with any man apart from Sherlock. Of course he had moments with mates in the army but that was more about a mutual getting-off session. Soldiers far from home and all that. John has never before thought of himself as anything but straight.

'Seems I was wrong,' he mutters to himself, drawing up at his house.

He lets himself in and shuts the door behind him.

'Harry?' he calls, dumping his bag on the floor.

'I'm in the kitchen,' she replies.

Sighing he hangs up his coat and wanders down toward the room at the end of the hallway. Harry is standing by the fridge, smiling awkwardly at him.

'Hey. You alright?' he asks, moving closer.

'John...' she begins and then he hears the kitchen door slam shut behind him. Whirling he comes face to face with none other than Jim who is standing casually, one hand rifling through his hair.

'What the hell?' John demands, fumbling for his gun before realising he no longer has it on his person. It's locked safely away in his suitcase... by the front door.

Smoothly Jim withdraws his own firearm and points it at him.

'Take it easy now, Johnny boy. We wouldn't want you to get hurt.'

'I'm so sorry John!' Harry cries, 'he said he'd hurt me. I didn't know what else to do...'

'It's not your fault Harry,' John replies calmly. 'What d'you want, Jim?'

'Surely you know that!' Jim cackles. 'I want _you_. I've only ever wanted you, Johnny. Imagine how upset I was when your darling sister announced you'd gone to play nanny to some rich mummy's boy.'

'Don't talk about him like that,' John snaps.

'Ahh, don't like people belittiling your beloved?' Jim asks with a sardonic sneer. 'I did my research into Sherlock Holmes, Johnny. It's amazing what you can find out with the right contacts. He never did tell you what happened to him did he?'

As a guess it's right on the money. John knows full well what Jim is trying to do yet is helpless to stop his own curiosity.

'Tell me what you know,' he demands, taking a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides.

'Uh-uh! Not yet.' His features tighten and he waves his gun towards a doorway immediately to Harry's right. 'After you.'

John laughs. 'You have to be kidding me.'

Jim moves quickly. John blinks and suddenly Harry has a gun pressed against her temple. Jim's eyes are cold and flat.

'I'm not kidding, Johnny. Not anymore. Playtime's over. Move.'

John stares at him for a second, notes the terror in his sister's eyes, and his shoulders slump. If only he had his own firearm this would be such a different situation. He's a crack-shot ex soldier whereas Jim, beneath all the bluster, is just a smalltown bully. But even a smalltown bully can be deadly and John knows this all too well. Without saying a word he turns and walks through the door flashing Harry what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he goes.

The door leads to their cellar which is hardly used. This is evidenced by the choking dust and draped cobwebs that hang from the beams and rafters.

He hears clattering as Harry and Jim follow him down and soon they're all grouped together in the centre. Jim gestures to a decrepit wooden bench in the corner and, glaring, John sits down followed swiftly by Harry.

'Now listen up,' Jim says, making sure to keep the gun aimed levelly at Harry. _He's not a complete idiot_, John thinks idly, _he knows I won't take any risks while Harry's in danger_. 'I'm sure you can appreciate Johnny that I was most displeased when Harriet here told me you'd jumped ship and headed off into the wild for no apparent reason. Why, I felt quite abandoned.' He pouts. 'So I set myself to doing a little research on this Sherlock Holmes character. You'll be quite amazed at what I found, even I was surprised. I was expecting a bit of a mystery but...' he laughs delightedly, 'the result was really quite astounding.'

'What are you going on about, Jim?' John asks exasperatedly.

'All in good time,' Jim coos. 'I have a few questions first to validate my conclusions. First off, did anybody at the Manor actually tell you anything about what happened there ten years ago?'

John hates to do it, but he has to admit the truth. 'No.'

'Was it ever hinted at, even vaguely, that the truth would be unbelievable and that's why they couldn't tell you?'

'Yes,' John sighs.

'Finally, and this may sound peculiar but bear with me, did Sherlock happen to ask if you loved him before you left?'

John gapes at Jim, astounded. 'How in hell...?'

Jim claps his hands, his eyes alight with glee. 'He did! Oh brilliant, we're on track. You didn't say you loved him back did you?'

'No,' John says faintly, his mind reeling. What was so important about Sherlock's declaration of love?

'All in good time,' Jim says, appearing to read John's mind. 'Now then, time to get comfy.' He moves to the doorway, carefully keeping the gun trained on Harry, and calls out. A few minutes later Sebastian appears bearing rope and a smug grin.

'Where the hell did he come from?' John asks belligerently. Jim only smiles vaguely and gestures to Sebastian who proceeds to tie Harry to an iron pipe attached to the grimy cellar wall.

'Your turn now,' Jim sing-songs as Sebastian turns to John. 'And I would advise you not to fight or my finger might just slip and then _bang_ goes your sister.'

John scowls but sits still, allowing Sebastian to tie him up to the same pipe as Harry. Once finished, Sebastian steps back and Jim begins talking.

'Now, I'm afraid I can't stay long as I have a rather pressing appointment at Holmes Manor but before I go I have a little story to tell you Johnny boy. Years ago there was a little boy called Sherlock Holmes who lived with his parents and older brother in a fine old house in the country. His parents never paid much attention to young Sherlock, indeed it was his elder brother Mycroft who was the favourite. Sherlock grew up into a troubled young man, a man with a dizzying intellect but a damaged heart. He promised himself he would never let anybody hurt him ever again and so he closed himself off from the world. As the years passed he became cruel and cold, pushing away anybody who tried to get close. Including, as it so happened, a young girl named Molly at one of his parents' big parties.' Jim leans in close and rubs his hands together. 'Now, listen closely Johnny because this is the good part. Sherlock rejected Molly's tentative advances in his usual disdainful and vicious manner. This was a bit of a mistake on his part, however, as it turns out that Molly was actually an incredibly powerful sorceress...'

At this point John bursts out laughing. Jim stops and leans back, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for quiet. Eventually John's laughter calms and he looks up at Jim.

'Honestly, Jim, this is the best you've got? A sorceress? Didn't have you down as the type to believe in fairy tales.'

'Did Sherlock not refuse to tell you his story because he was sure you'd find it unbelievable?' Jim asks coolly. 'Let me finish and then you can judge.'

John shrugs and Jim continues.

'As I was saying. Molly placed a curse on Sherlock that very moment. Unless he was able to find somebody to love who would love him in return, in ten years time from that day he would die. She saw that he had no love in him and so cursed him to remain emotionally crippled until such a time as somebody would come and break the spell. Of course, Sherlock was naturally disbelieving at first. After all, he was a scientist and was trained to favour logic and reason above all else. Even he, however, couldn't explain the shrivelling, withering sensation in his chest, or the fact that the deaths of his parents and his beloved dog Gladstone left him completely unmoved. He came to believe in the reality of the curse, as did his brother Mycroft who left immediately to search for a cure. So far as I know, he hasn't found one.'

Through the fog of his disbelief, John feels a slow creeping horror steal around his heart. He thinks back on so many moments in the past few months and events and words which had previously made no sense to him are now horrifyingly understandable.

_There are... reasons... Reasons he's like he is. Not all of it is his fault._

_You won't be here for the rest of your life, Doctor Watson. At most you'll only need to stay here for a few months._

_It's like you're putting on a mask to try and convince people that you're a heartless bastard._

_Oh, it's no mask._

_I can't have friends. It's something I'm cursed with._

'I see you're beginning to put it together,' Jim says, a satisfied smile on his face. 'Sherlock searched for years to find somebody to end his curse, but all his efforts were rejected. He locked himself away in the Manor, resigned to his fate. Until you came along, Johnny. Suddenly here was somebody who he found himself able to talk to, spend time with. Here was somebody who he could fall in love with. And he did. Quickly and irrevocably.'

_You have to know that... I love you._

'But you, Johnny, fled from him when he admitted his feelings to you. When he asked you, you fled from him. Three little words to save his life and you wouldn't do it.'

John is aware that his mouth is hanging open in horror but is physically unable to do anything about it. His mind is stuck on a hideous loop where he replays Sherlock's last words to him over and over again.

_And, if you love me too, please just say it. Please... don't forget me. Whatever happens... don't forget me._

'Set it up,' Jim snaps suddenly to Sebastian who disappears into the house, returning a moment later with what looks like some sort of projector. As he busies himself with putting it together, Jim beams at John.

'I'm so happy to know you don't love Sherlock, John. I was rather worried for a moment that I might have a competitor for my affections. Luckily for me, however, Sherlock won't be a rival for much longer. I'm heading off there now and I'm hoping to catch his last moments on camera. It's linked directly to this projector so you'll be able to see it all too! Won't that be fun?'

'You're sick,' John rasps eventually, his brain still mostly blank with horror. 'You're a sick bastard James Moriarty and I hope you rot in hell for this.'

'Ooh, now that's not very nice is it? Never mind Johnny, I can wait for you to come around to my charms. Now you'll have to wait for a few hours for the video to come online.. although I shouldn't think traffic will be too bad at this time of night.'

Sebastian finishes with the projector which has been set up so that John and Harry have a clear view of the large white screen on the opposite wall. Jim examines it, pronounces himself satisfied and then he and Sebastian head for the door. As they go, John suddenly lurches into action.

He heaves against the ropes that bind him, straining in blind rage for Jim. 'I'll kill you for this Jim!' he shouts. 'D'you hear me? I'll kill you!'

Jim places a hand to his heart. 'I'm hurt, Johnny. The way you're going on you'd think that I'm planning on _killing_ Sherlock. But I'm not going to lift a finger to hurt a hair on his head. You're the one with the power to sign his death warrant John, and you did so when you left there without returning his love. Enjoy the show!'

They leave. Harry, her eyes brimming with tears, turns to John.

'John?'

'Don't, Harry. Don't talk to me.'

'You can't let what he said get to you.'

'How could I have known?' John whispers brokenly to himself, tears streaking down his cheeks. 'How could I possibly have known? Why didn't they _tell_ me? Why didn't he? Why did he let me leave? I could have saved him, I could have...'

'You couldn't, John,' Harry says gently. 'If you don't love him then it wouldn't have worked, would it? You could have said the words till you were blue in the face but...'

'I _do_ love him,' John murmurs softly. 'I have done for awhile. I knew it when he asked me but I was too afraid. Too embarrassed. Too English.' He laughs derisively. 'Scared of my own feelings. He's the one with the curse and yet I couldn't tell him how I truly felt. And he'll die thinking he's unloved...'

_Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not sure. I like you, alright?_

This seems to knock Harry for six slightly as she doesn't talk again and leaves John to his thoughts.

He doesn't know exactly how long they sit there in the dark. Occasionally he hears Harry struggle against her bonds but he knows it's useless. He'd watched as Sebastian tied her up. The man may be an idiot but he knows his knots.

Suddenly the screen in front of them flickers to life. John's head jerks upwards and he screws up his eyes against the sudden glare of light. Jim's voice echoes eerily through the cellar.

'Hello again, Johnny!' Tentatively John manages to crack open an eye and almost immediately wishes he hadn't. The screen is filled with a close up image of Jim's face and the picture is jerking up and down slightly. John realises that the man must be videoing himself walking. 'I'm here, sorry it took me so long but we should still have plenty of time for the show.'

The camera moves to pan around the surrounding area and John sees the familiar gates of the Holmes Manor loom up out of the darkness.

'They'll never let you inside,' John croaks, his voice cracking from disuse. It's obvious that Jim can't hear him but he doesn't seem to have lost his ability to read minds.

'I'm sure you're thinking they'll never let me in, but you see I have ways and means, Johnny. Ways and means.'

Suddenly the screen goes dark and the audio dead.

Energised out of his stupor, John begins to work his wrists up and down behind him, hoping to loosen the ropes. He will _not_ just sit here and watch Sherlock lose his life all because he was too cowardly to admit to his feelings.

The anxiety and fear stabs in his gut at this thought. What if... what if he can't get free? What if he's forced to sit here, useless, while the person he loves more than anything dies in front of him? Even picturing that light leaving Sherlock's eyes makes John's tear up. He pulls against his ropes harder.

'John?' Harry's voice is quiet and flat. She's given up, he realises fitfully, she's given up but he's not giving up because he's John Watson and he was a soldier and soldiers don't give up _damn it_. 'John it's no good. The ropes are too tight. They're too well tied.'

'I was in Afghanistan, I can survive this,' John mutters nonsensically, his face flushed and the muscles in his neck cording as he strains.

This carries on for a few minutes, John struggling against the unmoving ropes and Harry watching him with a deep sadness and pity suffusing her features. Suddenly the projector springs back to life again and John abruptly halts his ineffectual efforts to get free, his attention now entirely on the screen in front of him.

Again the image is of Jim's face, wearing a beaming smile. 'Well, I made it Johnny, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear.' The camera moves and John realises with a strange jolt that he's looking at the balcony just outside Sherlock's bedroom. The image focuses on the hourglass which has now got hardly anything left in the top half. 'Dear, dear,' Jim tuts, the image zooming in closer to the remaining grains of sand, 'doesn't look like darling Sherlock has much time left does it?'

'Bastard,' John spits out, lunging forward as far as he can.

'I'd say maybe a couple of hours. I never did know for certain exactly when this curse was put in place you know. Adds a certain element of intrigue to the whole thing doesn't it?' Sickened, John sees that Jim's eyes are alight with excitement. 'Anyway, shall we go in and see Sherlock?'

The french doors are yawning crazily at odd angles, the glass still shattered on the floor. Sherlock obviously hasn't been bothered enough to fix them. Jim picks his way delicately through the fragments of glass.

'Dear me Mister Holmes, you should really clear up after yourself you know,' Jim tuts, making his way deeper into the room. John squints, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. 'Somebody could pick up a serious injury with all this lot on the floor.'

'Piss off,' a voice croaks from the darkness and John's heart leaps and falls within the same moment. Because that is undoubtedly Sherlock and yet definitely not the Sherlock he left only a day ago. Furthermore, he must be in a bad way if he is not immediately making deductions and hurling abuse at Jim. The image on screen brightens and John realises that Jim must have switched on a lamp close by. Immediately the bedroom is thrown into clarity. And John wishes it hadn't been.

Now he can see the bed. He can see the body lying on top of the covers, half on and half off the mattress as though Sherlock tried to fling himself down but lost the energy halfway through. The light of the lamp casts shadows on Sherlock's face and John is horrified at the change wrought since he left. The man's naturally pale skin has become a deathly white pallor which is highlighted even more vividly by the deep, purple bruises under both eyes. The full mouth is drawn into a tight rictus of pain and from the right nostril there is a thin, bright crimson trickle of blood. Beads of sweat march along Sherlock's hairline and his dark, messy curls are damp and cling tenaciously to the bones in his face and jaw. However it's his eyes which show the most damage. They are dull and glassy full of nothing but pain and loss. Sherlock's chest rises and falls shallowly as he struggles for breath.

'Well, I see they got one thing right about you at any rate,' Jim says. 'You really are astoundingly rude. Don't you even want to know who I am?'

'No,' Sherlock rasps, managing to fix his eyes on where John presumes Jim is standing. 'Obvious. You're that Moriarty fellow.'

'Oh very good!' Jim caws from behind the camera. 'How did you work that out? Has Johnny been singing my praises?'

'Hardly,' Sherlock mutters, looking away from him again. 'You've broken into my house, climbed up the side of the wall, probably using a grappling hook, and waltzed into my bedroom with a video camera. John described you as a crazy stalker type. Go figure.' There is a vicious hiss of indrawn breath and despite himself John smirks. Sherlock may not be on his best form but it's good to see there's still a bit of him left.

'Speaking of Johnny,' Jim says coldly, 'you know he can see everything, don't you? That's what the video camera's for.'

Sherlock's expression tightens even further. 'He's watching?'

'Oh yes. In fact we had a good old laugh about it. This was all part of the plan.'

Sherlock eyes flick back and forth, clearly searching Jim's face. 'What plan?'

'Don't listen to him, Sherlock!' John yells, pulling against the ropes once again, a study in futile desperation.

'We organised it all. Once Johnny got the offer of a job we thought it'd be amusing to see if the rumours going around were true. Don't you get it yet, Sherlock? I thought you were supposed to be a genius. You were stitched up. John doesn't care about you at all. To him this is just the punchline to a great joke.'

'Bollocks,' Sherlock rasps, before coughing roughly onto the sheets of the bed. John is horrified to see blood spatter the white cotton. He's even more horrified to see the confusion and hurt in Sherlock's eyes as the man looks at Jim. 'You're lying.'

'I'm not. John is with me, Sherlock. We set this whole thing up.'

'You're lying,' Sherlock says again but this time it's weaker, the uncertainty more obvious. Jim snorts with laughter.

'I'm really not. We've been together for years.'

John falls back against the wall of the celllar, his mind frozen with horror. He can't do anything to stop this. He can't do anything to prevent Sherlock's death. He can't do anything to let Sherlock know that he was loved. Sherlock will die thinking the one person he thought cared was acting all along.

'I love you, Sherlock,' John whispers to the screen, watching as Sherlock coughs up more blood, his dark curls now plastered to his skull. 'I love you.'

'Doctor Watson? Doctor Watson? John? Are you here?'


	10. 9: A Rescue in the Rain

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Nine**

_**A Rescue in the Rain**_

John blinks and instantly sits bolt upright. Harry glances sharply at him. 'Who the hell is that?' she asks. John thinks hard, and then he has the voice placed. Hope dawns on his face as he shouts out.

'Chip? Chip, we're down here! Down in the cellar! Hurry!'

There is a pause and then clattering footsteps. Chip appears in the doorway to the cellar, staring down at them.

'Oh my God,' he says, clapping a hand to his mouth.

'Hurry!' John shouts.

The boy stumbles down the steps and moves immediately to John, kneeling behind him and examining the knots.

'What happened?' he asks.

'No time to explain. Get me out.'

Clearly giving up on the idea of unpicking the knots, Chip takes a penknife from his jeans and begins sawing methodically through the rope. Eventually they fall in a slithering heap to the floor and John gets to his feet, rubbing at his wrists.

'Get my sister free, Chip. Then meet me outside. One minute, no more.'

John pauses in the hallway to grab his bag and gun. Swiftly he checks the weapon, making absolutely sure it's in perfect working order. Then he dashes out to the car and hurls himself into the driver's seat.

Less than a minute later Chip comes skidding towards him while Harry stands at the doorway, watching them and rubbing at her wrists reflexively. Chip slides into the passenger seat and John engages the gears with a sickening crunch. He spares just a second to wave to Harry who waves back, a weak, encouraging smile on her face. He thinks he sees her mouth form the words _Good Luck_ before he's speeding down the street and heading toward the Manor.

'Why d'you leave us, John?' Chip asks, clinging onto his seat with both hands as John takes a hairpin turn at fifty miles an hour. 'Did you not like living with us? I know the master can be difficult sometimes but don't you care about him at all?'

'I care about him more than he knows,' John mutters, his attention fixed on the road in front of him.

Chip shuffles awkwardly on the seat for a moment. 'Listen, you're not going to believe this, but...'

'I know everything. The man who tied me and Harry up told me before going to Holmes Manor. He's with Sherlock as we speak, videoing everything...' John trails off and Chip sees him raise one clenched fist to his eye and dash something away. 'I know about the curse. And if Sherlock dies it'll be all my fault for being such a goddamn coward.'

'You're not a coward, John,' Chip says quietly. 'The curse is... well, it's crazy. A situation like this would never have crossed your mind and if we'd told you, you'd never have believed it.'

'I know,' John mutters. 'Doesn't make it any better though. If Sherlock dies, I'll never forgive myself.'

There's silence for awhile, apart from the hiss and splatter of raindrops and the purring engine of the car as it speeds through the darkness, the rays of light cast by the headlamps throwing the road and surrounding wintry trees into stark relief. The wipers squeak rhythmically, working to clear the water off the windscreen.

'How did you manage to find me anyway?' John asks suddenly, his voice so loud and sudden that Chip jumps.

'Oh, it was easy really. I saw the way Sherlock was going and I knew you were his last chance. I went into Grandma's room and found the contact details for you from the emails she sent. Then I stole some money out of her purse and got on the first train I could. I got a taxi to yours from the station.'

John glances at him admiringly. 'How old are you again?'

'Going on fifteen.'

'Well, that was some quick thinking on your part. And I for one am glad you thought of coming to find me otherwise I'd still be stuck in that damned cellar.'

'The man who tied you guys up in the first place, who exactly is he? And why's he gone to the Manor?'

'It's a long story,' John replies, sighing heavily. 'Jim Moriarty is a smalltown bully with a uniquely cunning and vicious mind. Somehow, shortly after me and Harry moved into the town, he became obsessed with me. It started off quite small and really I found it funny to begin with. Creepy but harmless, you know? Then, well, he started coming round to the house at all hours, insisting we were supposed to be together. He made several marriage proposals.'

'You're kidding,' Chip says, looking as if he's torn between laughter and horror. 'What a pyscho.'

'You got that right. He basically got Harry to call me and say he'd been threatening her. When I heard that, I left the Manor immediately to head home as he knew I would. He was waiting with a gun in the kitchen, one thing led to another and you know the rest.'

'Jesus,' Chip mutters sounding a little awed despite himself.

Less than an hour and a half later, thanks to John's blatant disregard for speed limits and red lights, they find themselves pulling up to Holmes Manor. John can see Jim's car parked neatly in front of the gates and feels his anger spike again.

'It's going to take ages for them to open these gates,' John says, more to himself than to Chip. 'Guess I'm going to have to find a way over them. If Jim managed it...'

'No need,' Chip pipes from his seat, waving a small black remote. He depresses a button on it and gradually the gates begin to open.

'Good thinking,' John says, driving forward the second the gates are wide enough to fit the car through. They screech up the drive and as soon as the car's stopped, John is out and running toward the front door which opens just as he reaches it, his fist raised to pound on the wood. Greg is standing there looking tired and dispirited. His eyes light up as he sees John and then Chip.

'Thank Christ you're here,' he says. 'You're not going to believe...'

'Yes, I know everything,' John blurts out, shouldering past, followed by Chip. Greg shuts the door, looking a little lost and bewildered.

'Wait, you know _everything_? How?'

'No time. I need to see Sherlock,' John says, withdrawing his gun and proceeding towards the stairs. Greg hurries after him.

'He's locked himself in his room, we haven't seen him since you left. He's getting worse, we can hear him coughing.'

'He's not alone in there anymore,' John bites out, as they reach the landing and head down the corridor leading to the West Wing. 'My stalker from back home broke in.'

'Wait, what?' Greg asks, panting along beside him. 'What stalker?'

'Long story. He came here to film Sherlock's last moments. He's a pyschopath and...' John trails off. 'It's all just a mess. I told him I'd kill him when I get my hands on him and if I'm too late, I will.'

They reach the stairs leading to Sherlock's rooms.

'You do realise you probably shouldn't say that sort of thing,' Greg says without much force. 'I am a retired police officer.'

'I couldn't care less right now,' John responds shortly. He slows down as they approach the doors leading to Sherlock's rooms. Placing a finger on his lips, he presses his ear against the wood. 'I can't hear anything,' John whispers. 'How about you?'

Looking like he's stepped through the looking glass, Greg mirrors John and listens intently. 'Nothing,' he says quietly. John glances at Greg who nods and they both step back.

'You ever done this before?' John asks.

'A coupla times. Drugs busts, mainly.' Without waiting to say anymore he raises his right leg straight from the hip and kicks out at the lock of the door. The wood shudders and there is a small splintering sound. 'Good,' Greg mutters, getting ready to kick again.

'Good?' John asks, watching as Greg's foot slams into the door a second time, the splintering sound louder now, the dull metal lock wobbling.

'Yes, good. If the door doesn't give at all at the first kick it's unlikely to break.' Greg moves forward to examine the lock and gives the wood an experimental push. The door shudders more violently under his touch. 'One more kick and then we'll use shoulders,' Greg mutters to himself, taking up his position once more. The third kick sees the lock suddenly hang crazily at an angle and the door bends inward a touch. Swiftly Greg tells John how to position himself and then, after a short pause, they both run at the door together, their shoulders pistoning into the wood. There's a loud cracking noise and the groan of hinges under stress.

'One more time,' Greg pants and John nods. They run at the door once more and then they're through, stumbling over the broken ends of wood.

The anteroom is deserted, the usual jumble of junk lying undisturbed. Their eyes fall on the double doors opposite them which lead into Sherlock's bedroom.

'He'd better not have locked them too,' Greg mutters, rubbing his shoulder. John dashes forward and tries the handle.

'It's unlocked. You ready?'

'Right behind you,' Greg responds. John nods, adjusts his grip on his gun, and opens the door. His eyes scan the room quickly, a soldier always learns how to weigh up any potentially dangerous situation. However, much like the anteroom it's completely deserted.

'They were here!' John hisses, moving further into the room. Greg follows and then stops abruptly, listening.

'John. They're outside.'

John stops and listens too. Over the drumming of the rain on the few unbroken panes of glass they can hear a voice although it's barely audible over the din made by the weather. John motions to Greg and together they creep out onto the balcony.

John is instantly drenched. The rain trickles in chilled fingers down the neck of his jacket and plasters his hair to his skull. He blinks fiercely, attempting to keep water out of his eyes as he peers through the downpour.

The balcony is extensive and John knows that a set of stone steps to his left lead down to a lower platform. Motioning silently to Greg he edges in that direction, counting on the thundering rain to muffle his footsteps.

The sight that greets him once he's gained the lower platform almost makes his heart stop. As he rounds the corner he sees Jim standing facing him. He has one arm locked around Sherlock's waist and with his other hand he's pressing his gun to Sherlock's temple.

'I had a feeling I might be seeing you here,' Jim crows, raising his eyebrows as he sees Greg approach. 'And you brought a friend. How delightful. Now, I would warn you against saying anything to him Johnny,' he says with a tilt of his head as John opens his mouth. 'One word from you and Sherlock will have his brains spattered all over the place.'

John is under no allusions as to what Jim is forbidding him to say. Besides, it doesn't look as if Sherlock is in any condition to hear him. From the way his dark head is lolling and the fact that his body is half supported by Jim, half supported by the stone balustrade, John presumes he's unconscious. He _hopes_ he's unconscious.

'You said you wouldn't hurt him,' John mutters, his fingers tightening reflexively around the handle of his gun.

'I haven't... yet,' Jim replies amiably. 'And if you do as you're told then I'll let nature take its course and Sherlock can die of... well, not exactly _natural_ causes but not by my hand.'

'So what do you want me to do?' John asks, forcing an air of calm. He can sense Greg shifting uneasily behind him.

'Come away with me,' Jim replies simply, his eyes unblinking despite the rain.

John opens his mouth to reply, with what he has no idea. And then, suddenly, the world is full of noise. The air rushes past him, the trees in the grounds bend alarmingly their trunks creaking in the unexpected gale. He glances to his right. A helicopter is lowering itself to the earth right beside them, its blades slowing as it approaches the landing. Everywhere there is roaring, rushing noise.

John was a soldier and realises there can be nothing more helpful than an unexpected disruption. True enough, Jim's eyes are fixed on the helicopter, his mouth slightly open in surprise. If this were any other time, John might have stayed to enjoy that look on his face. As it is, he launches himself at the man, dropping his gun as he does so.

He crashes into Jim and the momentum sends them both over the ledge. What he hasn't accounted for is the fact that Jim's hand is clenched in Sherlock's shirt, therefore dragging him over as well.


	11. 10: Blood and Tears

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Ten**

_**Blood and Tears**_

The world rushes past as John flails, attempting to grab hold of something, anything. Suddenly, underneath his fingertips, is stone. Automatically he seizes hold of it and with an abrupt jerk his descent is stopped. Dazed he blinks and attempts to work out what's happened. Glancing up he can see where he fell from, a distance of perhaps seven feet. He's clutching onto the ledge of a lower balcony. Greg appears above, holding John's gun, aiming it at... Jim. Jim has managed what John hasn't and landed on the lower balcony. He's getting to his feet, although with slightly less grace than usual. But Jim isn't John's concern at the moment, despite the fact that the other man seems to have somehow kept hold of his gun. Desperately John twists his head around, searching for Sherlock.

A crumpled, dark figure lies on the gravel of the drive, some twenty feet below the ledge John is currently clinging to. Dark blood is illuminated, shining in the light from the windows. Sherlock is motionless.

'No,' John whispers.

A man is emerging from the helicopter which has landed a few metres away from where Sherlock lies crumpled. He races towards the inert body and there is no disguising the anguish on his face.

Jim completely forgotten, John watches horrified yet hopeful as the man forces a vial of something between Sherlock's lips. Now that the new arrival has got closer to the light John can tell that there are slight similarities between the stranger and Sherlock. A tall, slim build. High cheekbones. A certain angle of the jaw.

Unlike Sherlock the other man has thinning dark brown hair and a large, almost beaky nose. He is also significantly older. This must surely be the elusive Mycroft that John has heard about but never seen, and what he's forcing between his brother's lips has to be a cure. John holds his breath as Mycroft rocks back on his heels, his eyes anxiously darting from the empty vial to his brother's face.

There is nothing. Sherlock remains completely motionless. Helplessly John watches as Mycroft gathers the body to him, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

'Sherlock!' John cries brokenly. Mycroft raises his head and for the first time appears to take in the scene going on above his head.

'Very touching,' a voice sneers suddenly and John sighs resignedly as he turns his head back to Jim who is now standing above him. 'Looks like big brother's miracle cure failed.'

'Don't move!' another voice shouts. Greg, still on the balcony above, has levelled his gun at Jim's head. 'Don't you dare Jim, or I'll blow you away.'

'Ooooh, aren't you the big bad wolf all of a sudden!' Jim crows.

Greg doesn't hesitate. A shot echoes in the air with a resounding _crack_ and suddenly Jim is falling. John feels hands grab at his waist and vainly he attempts to shake them off. Moriarty is clutching at him and immediately it becomes harder to hold onto the edge of the balcony.

'Get off you bastard,' he snarls furiously, kicking his legs.

'Not a chance. I go down, you go down,' Jim responds breathlessly, looking slightly taken aback at this turn of events. Peering down at him, John sees a crimson stain on Jim's snowy shirt which is steadily growing larger. Uncaring John turns away, checks on the two dark figures on the ground and then looks desperately back up at the balcony. From this angle, and due to the light still shining out from Sherlock's bedroom, he has a clear view of the hourglass just inside the shattered balcony doors. The top half is empty. Sherlock has run out of time.

Very briefly John stares at Jim.

'I told you I'd kill you,' John says grimly and lets go of the ledge.

For the second time he is falling through the air, only this time he manages to keep hold of Jim. In the few seconds it takes for them to fall the twenty odd feet he manoeuvres himself so that he's directly above his stalker.

The impact onto the driveway is brutal. Jim's head and shoulders collide with the ground first. John has managed to position himself in such a way that he lands on top of the other man and then rolls off to one side. Gravel embeds itself into his collarbone and upper chest but it's Jim who remains unmoving. Rolling his shoulder, John takes a moment to collect himself and then he's running over to where Sherlock is being cradled against Mycroft.

'Sherlock!'

'You're too late, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft says, his slightly red-rimmed eyes meeting John's. 'My brother's dead.'

'No, he can't be.'

In response Mycroft passes a hand briefly across Sherlock's forehead, brushing the soaking dark curls backwards and then lowers the body to the ground. He takes one more look and then gets to his feet, moving slowly in the direction of the front door.

John's knees buckle and he collapses next to Sherlock's inert form. Sherlock's face is ashy, his eyes shut, long eyelashes lying against pale skin. His hair is fanned out in an inky pool on the gravel which is stained red.

Desperately John places two fingers against Sherlock's pulse points, first on his neck and then on his wrist. Shaking his head rhythmically he then leans over and presses his ear against the other man's chest.

'Damn it, Sherlock!' he screams, 'don't do this to me!' Angrily he beats a fist against Sherlock's ribcage but the blow is weak. His tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks he reaches out and mimics Mycroft in drawing Sherlock up and against his own chest. He is pathetically light and his head lolls backwards over John's arm.

John remains in that position for a few seconds, his head bowed over Sherlock's body, uncaring of the unceasing rain which continues to pound down all around them.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock,' he whispers eventually, pulling back and stroking Sherlock's frozen cheek with his free hand. 'How could I have known? Why was I such a coward? I could have saved you, it could have been so simple. _Why didn't you tell me?_' The tears are coming thick and fast now. John doesn't even realise that he has an audience. Mycroft, Greg and the rest of the staff have gathered out on the driveway, maintaining a respectful distance. Chip is staring at the ground, Mrs Hudson has one arm around him and with the other she's brushing tears from her eyes. Even Sally and Anderson who never really liked their boss are looking upset.

'I love you, Sherlock,' John says softly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cold lips. 'I love you and I didn't tell you because I was scared. I didn't think you were the sort of person I _should_ have fallen in love with. Not because you're a man but because you're, well, _you_. I didn't want to fall for an egotistical wanker with an inflated sense of his own self-worth but I did because somehow I managed to see who you were behind all that.'

Dimly he becomes aware that somebody is approaching and twists his head to see Greg standing awkwardly behind him. The ex police officer's eyes are red-rimmed too and he's wringing his hands.

'I don't want to interrupt John, but we should really get out of the rain.'

'I'm not leaving him,' John growls, tightening his grip automatically. Greg raises a hand in a peaceful gesture.

'I'm not suggesting that. I'm saying that we should get both of you into the house. Mycroft's set up a place for Sherlock to... well...'

'Rest in peace?' John says sarcastically, more tears slipping down his cheeks. Greg flushes.

'Something like that. Look, can we just get inside? Please?'

The resistance goes out of John fairly quickly. His shoulders slump and he turns his gaze back to Sherlock's face.

'Fine. But Jim stays out here.'

'For now, alright,' Greg says placatingly.

Between Greg, Chip, Mycroft and John they bear Sherlock up and into the house. None of them notice that the hourglass has a couple of grains of sand left and that as they convey the body up the steps of the manor, they slowly tumble to join their fellows in the container below.

On entering the house they go to the ground-floor bedroom that Mycroft has set up and reverently lay the body on the bed.

'Grandma's going to make something for everyone to eat,' Chip says quietly, his gaze fixed on his former employer's body. Unlike the others he hasn't cried but his face shows a sadness and grief which should never be seen on someone so young. 'She says we'll need our strength.'

'And she's quite right,' Greg says bracingly, attempting a smile. 'Mr Holmes? John?'

'I'll be there in a minute,' Mycroft replies. 'I want a word with Doctor Watson.'

John says nothing but stays sat in the chair by the bedside, not taking his gaze off Sherlock for a second. He hears Greg sigh deeply and then he and Chip leave the room. Mycroft paces over to the window and stares out at the driving rain.

'What was the cure?' John asks after awhile. Mycroft doesn't turn from the window.

'An old Tibetan remedy. I'd been all over the world and was convinced that at last I'd found it.'

'But you hadn't,' John says sharply. 'It did nothing, did it?'

'No,' Mycroft responds heavily, 'but I really thought it would. The man who sold it to me seemed to have intimate knowledge of the particular curse my brother was under. He made a convincing case and by that point, as I'm sure you can appreciate, I was desperate.'

'Sherlock didn't think you cared at all,' John says. 'He says... _said_... you were ashamed of him and his condition. He said you wanted to get away from it all and the story about searching for a cure was all a cover to make you feel less guilty for abandoning him.' Although his tone is mild, there's a steel anger underlaying it which seems to be enough to make Mycroft turn and face him.

'There may be some truth in that,' he replies sadly, meeting John's eyes. 'I was young myself and had no idea how to cope with something so... unorthodox. My parents didn't believe it at all. I only started to believe when Sherlock did, when I saw his reactions to our parents' and Gladstone's death. I left immediately and although I was searching for a cure, I can't lie. It was also a way for me to get away from Sherlock and for that I will always hate myself.'

John sighs and strokes a finger down Sherlock's cheek while his other rests on Sherlock's stomach, near his hip bone. 'I don't know why I'm blaming you,' he says bitterly. 'At least you did your best. I didn't know about the curse but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have been such a coward when he asked me if I loved him. I should have picked up on the clues like _he_ would have done. I should have escaped from the cellar quicker...' the tears start up again and he buries his head in his hands.

'The cellar?' Mycroft asks, his tone intrigued. Briefly John outlines, between sobs, the story of what happened between him, Harry and Jim.

'It doesn't sound like you could have done anymore,' Mycroft says gently. 'You did your best, Doctor Watson.'

'Can you call me John? Doctor Watson sounds far too formal. How d'you know my name anyway?'

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 'Did you think that just because we fought occasionally I cut off all contact with my brother? No, Sherlock texted me occasionally. Most recently his messages were all to do with you. It was fairly evident that he was falling in love with you and so I thought at least there would be a back-up plan should the cure fail.'

'Greg says that you were always the favourite child,' John says suddenly. 'That your parents always doted on you and ignored Sherlock and that's why the enchantress chose him to curse.'

'My parents didn't understand Sherlock,' Mycroft says, after a long pause. 'I was much more to their taste. I was more placid and easygoing. Sherlock was, to put it mildly, wild. He demanded attention all day every day. His constant energy could become exhausting.'

'Are you saying that's his fault?' John snaps, his anger building again.

'No! Not at all,' Mycroft replies quickly. 'I am in no way condoning my parents' behaviour towards him. I'm just saying that they didn't know how to deal with it. I was the only one able to calm him down, able to understand him. When I went off to University he was left alone. There was a considerable age gap after all. I think that's when he really started going downhill.'

There is silence for awhile, during which Mycroft goes back to staring out of the window and John goes back to staring at Sherlock. Eventually Mycroft turns and heads towards the door.

'I think the food must be ready by now,' he says softly, glancing at the tableau of Sherlock and John. 'You should eat something.'

'I'm not hungry,' John mutters. 'Somebody should do something about that bastard in the front. We're probably going to have to call the police.'

'Don't worry about that,' Mycroft says. 'I'll have my people take care of it.'

John blinks but doesn't raise any objections to Mycroft's assertion. 'If you say so,' he mutters. 'I think I'm going to go to bed.'

Mycroft nods and leaves the room. John goes to follow him. Briefly he turns back to the still figure on the bed and opens his mouth as if about to say something. No words come. He swallows a few times, his lips thin and he draws himself up a little taller. A beat of silence and he nods once or twice to himself before doing an about turn and exiting the room.

John makes his way to his room and pauses in the threshold. He surveys the contents, grimaces and then goes straight to the West Wing. The doorway is still shattered, the hourglass stands in its usual place, the bulb below filled with sand, the upper one empty. The bedclothes on Sherlock's four-poster are ruffled and disturbed. John crosses to the bed and stares. He can see the spots of blood staining the snowy sheets. Slowly he sits down on the mattress and then swings his legs up so he's lying down, his head cushioned on the pillow. Turning his face he inhales deeply and feels the tears start to his eyes as that well-remembered scent creeps to his senses. Lying here like this he almost feels as though Sherlock could come bursting through the door any minute with a new hare-brained idea.


	12. 11: Revival

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Eleven**

_**Revival**_

**Author's Note: Before we start I have to apologise for the delay in updating this fic. Unfortunately real life intervened and circumstances drove writing straight out of my mind. I have also just given up smoking which has made me intensely irritable and unable to concentrate! However, the fic is almost finished – this may in fact be the penultimate chapter. I hope you enjoy and apologies again for keeping you waiting.**

There's a drumbeat pounding somewhere. Sherlock blinks in the darkness, trying to ascertain its location. If it's a song, it's not one he's ever heard before, the beat is monotonous and boring, keeping a steady unchanging rhythm.

Before it started he'd been alone in the silent dark. Now he calls out, his voice hoarse and rough to his ears.

'Hello?'

The word reverberates around him and echoes. He takes a few shaky steps forward. Suddenly there is a flash of light, bright enough to almost blind him. Instinctively he closes his eyes and throws a hand up in front of his face. There's a crackling, electric sound and his limbs jerk as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer. The noise is harsh but there's no pain. Rather he feels vitality surging through his body, giving him strength and energy.

'Hello?' he calls again, noting that his voice sounds stronger.

The beat in the background picks up to a more lively rhythm. There is another flash of light, and then another.

In the distance, very faint, he can hear... is that rain? Confused he glances around at the unchanging darkness. But now he can see a very faint line of light. Quickly he blinks, lest it just be a hallucination brought on by his fevered mind. But when he reopens his eyes it's still there, an unchanging pale yellow line.

Slowly he begins to walk towards it. His legs feel stiff and un-cooperative but he forces them to move, one foot firmly placed in front of the other. The light draws nearer and nearer and lower and lower until finally he's reached it and it's right by his feet.

Confused he tries to cudgel his tired brain to work properly. The sound of rain is louder now, as is that strange beat which reverberates all around him.

'Hello?' he tries again but again receives no answer. Carefully he reaches out a hand and brushes at the darkness in front of him. Much to his surprise his fingertips encounter a solid surface. Exploring further he realises it's wood. Allowing his questing hand to drift lower there's something else. A cool, smooth globe of metal. Reflexively his fingers grasp it and as he does so the pieces fit into place. This is a door. The light is coming through a crack in the bottom. This is his escape from the darkness.

He twists, pushes and bright light streams through.

When he opens his eyes again he's no longer in that darkness. He's no longer standing upright. Above him is a ceiling painted in a rather boring cream colour. There's a light hanging from it but it's not switched on. The light is coming from somewhere over to his right.

He blinks a few times and then twists his head. Sure enough there's a lamp glowing softly on a bedside table. The sound of the rain is still present but the thundering beat has disappeared. Memories begin to rise up through the churning, muddied waters of his mind. John leaving to help his sister. His swift and inevitable decline in health. That man, Moriarty and a balcony. And then nothing. He frowns, realising that he must have fallen unconscious at some point.

And now he's here, wherever here is. Does this mean he's not dead? Did John come back and...? He stops that thought cold in its tracks. He can't allow himself to hope that John had a sudden change of heart. Perhaps Mycroft found a cure after all.

After a few minutes of simply lying still and allowing his mind to come to terms with this new situation he feels strong enough to swing his legs out of the bed and get shakily to his feet. There's a mirror on the other side of the room, just above the dressing table and he crosses to it, unsure of what he'll see in the reflection.

It's his own face staring back at him although he's fairly sure he's never looked more unwell. His skin is papery white but there is a hint of some pink dusted over his cheekbones as if some natural colour is struggling to come back. Much of his hair is sopping wet, lying flatly against his skull but there are some sections where it seems to be drying and the curls making themselves known again. Hesitantly he runs a hand through his hair and stares when it comes back stained with red. Blood. He'd assumed the dampness was just water but it seems that assumption was wrong. Head injury then, somewhere towards the back of his skull.

His white shirt is ripped and stained with more blood, mud and gravel. Gravel? The only gravel around the Manor is on the driveway... why on earth would he have been lying there? His arms, chest and certain parts of his face are littered with scratches and bruises. Frustrated beyond belief at his absent memories he slams a hand down on the dresser, wincing at the slight pain in his palm. There's something different about him, something important, but he can't put his finger on it. He moves back to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, trying to think.

He's feeling a lot better physically since he first opened his eyes on the bed. He knows that now his limbs will obey him unquestioningly and not let him down. His mind is beginning to clear as well, those muddied waters ebbing away leaving his brain the cool, precise gleaming machine it's always been. Yet there is something. Biting at his lower lip he concentrates hard. His eyes suddenly widen. Of course, that's it! Previously, ever since the curse had been placed upon him, he's felt his heart in his chest. A withered, damaged, poisoned excuse for an organ which kept his blood pumping around his body but did very little else. He'd always been able to sense its ragged edges. Now there's none of that. It feels like it'd done when he was a child, full and glowing with health.

Experimentally he thinks back to his beloved Gladstone's death and this new heart in his chest constricts painfully where his damaged one had remained completely indifferent. He remembers standing at Gladstone's grave, unable to cry or show any sort of emotion and now he feels a tear slip down his cheek. One single tear; such a simple thing and yet to Sherlock it means the world. He's cured. He allows the memories to come to him, the loss of his mother and his father, the pain of his isolation during childhood, the bereavement he was unable to feel when his brother abandoned him to go off around the world.

And John. _John_. The tears slip down his cheeks faster and faster as he thinks of the crippled doctor who, without even trying, had managed to bring life back to the Manor.

Making no effort to check the streaming tears, each one is a prize now, Sherlock crosses to the door and pulls it open, intent on finding out exactly where he is.

What he's not expecting is to see a very familiar hallway right outside the door. He's... in the Manor. No wonder he hadn't recognised the room, as far as he can remember he's never even been inside it. It's always just been there, a small, nondescript guest room set just to the left of the main staircase.

Tentatively he moves in the direction of the kitchen purely because in his experience that's where all the servants tend to gather when not attending to their other duties. Sure enough as he draws closer he begins to hear the low mutter of many voices. Standing quiet and motionless in the corridor he identifies them all, although he's not close enough to understand what's being said.

Mrs Hudson. Anderson. Chip. Sally. Lestrade. And Mycroft. No John. So his brother must have found a cure after all. His new heart clenches once more. Despite his best efforts it seems he still had clung onto the hope that it may have been John who'd cured him. But it's very obvious that John isn't here.

Not wanting to make his presence known just yet he slowly makes his way towards the West Wing. He's in no mood to hear his brother's boasts about how he saved his life.

As he enters his rooms everything appears to be as he remembers. The shattered glass from the patio door still lies over the floorboards. The pouring rain driven by a high wind is blowing in through the panes of the ruined windows soaking everything in its path. It's cold, bitterly so, and Sherlock turns instinctively toward his bed.

Which already has an occupant.

'John?' he whispers, almost unable to believe his eyes.

As if in answer the shape shifts and groans. Sherlock treads softly over to stare down at the figure tangled in the blankets. It is indeed John but it doesn't look as if he's having a pleasant night's sleep. His handsome features are drawn in a frown and his fists are clenching in the rumpled sheets. As Sherlock watches he tosses and turns, his head thrashing from side to side on the pillow.

'Sherlock... no... please, I... no... Jim, you...'

'John!' Sherlock whispers urgently, shocked out of his stupor enough to reach out a hand and gently shake John's shoulder.

After that events happen so fast they're a bit of a blur. Moving astonishingly quickly John grasps Sherlock's wrist and propels himself off the bed, taking Sherlock down with him. Sherlock's back hits the wooden floor with a crack and he winces. John lands heavily on top of him, straddling Sherlock, his hands reaching automatically for Sherlock's throat.

Due to the surprise nature of this attack Sherlock reacts slowly and is unable to prevent John's questing fingers from finding a tight grip around his neck. Slowly the pressure increases on his throat and he begins to gasp for breath.

Staring up into John's face, he can see nothing of the man he knows. The dark blue eyes are glazed and filled with hatred.

'John,' he croaks, and raising his hands he pushes against John's chest. He might as well have tried to move a block of solid concrete. 'John, it's me, stop. It's Sherlock.'

The last few words come out as a wheeze and Sherlock realises he's swiftly running out of air. Black spots begin to dance across his vision as he shoves ineffectually at John's chest and straining shoulders. How stupid, he thinks. He should have known better than to abruptly try and wake someone up who's in the grip of a nightmare.

'I told you I'd kill you,' John mutters, his eyes flaring with intense hatred.

Sherlock doesn't have the air to form words anymore. His sight is greying and going black around the edges. His hands drop from where they've been pushing at John's shoulders and fall limply against the wooden floor. He relaxes his whole body. This is his last defence, to try and make John aware subconsciously that there isn't anybody resisting him.

Amazingly it works. John's grip loosens on his neck and then suddenly awareness is leaking back into his dark blue gaze.

'What?' he asks dazedly, sitting back on his heels and staring at Sherlock who automatically raises his hands to his throat to massage the tender skin. 'Sh-Sherlock?'

Sherlock can do nothing but cough. Twisting, he rolls to the side, effectively dislodging John who stares at him, disbelieving.

No words are spoken for quite awhile as Sherlock attempts to gather his composure, and his breath, and John merely sits gazing at him.

'I thought you'd left,' Sherlock rasps eventually, still rubbing at his throat.

Suddenly John appears to regain his wits and scrambles in an awkward shuffle across the floor to where Sherlock has collapsed against the side of the bed. Tentatively he reaches out a hand and touches Sherlock's cheek. Bemused, Sherlock stays still.

'You were dead,' John whispers, his eyes darting all over Sherlock's face. 'You were dead and I was too late.'

'I'm not dead, John,' Sherlock says (despite his dislike for stating the obvious), his mind racing. _Too late_? Did that mean... could he dare to hope...?

'You were dead and...' John's gaze wanders down to the red marks around Sherlock's neck which will surely bruise in the morning. 'Jesus... I almost _killed_ you.'

Sherlock frowns. 'You do realise those two statements are contradictory?'

'Sherlock,' John says wonderingly. His fingers rub against Sherlock's cheekbones and unable to help himself Sherlock leans into the touch. There's too much data and it's being lost, his mind feels muddled. He needs to ascertain what happened after he fell unconscious.

'John, you came back?'

'I did,' John says quietly. 'It took Jim tying me up in my own cellar and explaining the curse to me to make me realise what I'd known for some time. Something I should have told you and admitted when you asked. I was stupid and a coward.'

'You could never be a coward,' Sherlock says instantly.

'I was. I knew what I felt but I couldn't admit it to myself. I thought I'd killed you. You went over the edge and Jim... and then Mycroft gave you the vial but it didn't work. You were _dead_. You had no pulse. There was blood and you fell and you were dead.'

Sherlock has to fight not to roll his eyes. 'I think we've established I'm not dead, John.' He lowers his gaze to the floorboards and murmurs quietly. 'Do you love me?'

'_Yes_,' John replies. 'God, Sherlock I've loved you since you saved me from that gang. I thought I was too late. I thought you were gone and I'd run out of time.'

'Say it,' Sherlock begs. 'I need to hear you say it.'

'I love you, Sherlock.'

John's eyes are clear and truthful. Sherlock feels his new heart almost physically leap in his chest at the words and something in his stomach coils into a new tension as he lowers his gaze to John's mouth.

'I want...' he begins and then falters.

'Take it.'

There is no more hesitation. Sherlock leans forward and their mouths fit together as if they were puzzle pieces slotting into place. John's hand winds its way into Sherlock's long curls and he scratches lightly at his scalp as he shuffles himself closer without breaking contact even for a second.

Their lips part and then John's tongue is reaching into Sherlock's mouth, searching and teasing and exploring. Sherlock groans, low in his throat and clasps both hands onto John's hips as he returns the favour.

After a few seconds they break apart for air and John touches his forehead lightly to Sherlock's, his hands still cupping Sherlock's face.

'I still can't believe it,' he whispers.

'I'm alive, John,' Sherlock responds. He takes one of John's hands and places it against his chest. 'You can feel it.'

John draws in a shaky breath and then pulls Sherlock into a full body hug, his arms wrapping tightly around the other's narrow back. There is silence for a few minutes while the rain continues to drum against the flagstones of the balcony and blow in through the shattered windows. Then John begins to laugh. Sherlock pulls away from him, confusion creasing his brow.

'John?' he asks, wishing to be in on the joke.

'Trust me to fall in love with a cursed madman,' John chokes out eventually. Sherlock chuckles and winds his arms back around John.

'I can see it's a unique sort of situation,' he replies dryly which only makes John laugh harder. Eventually John manages to calm himself down and gets to his feet. Sherlock gazes up at him from the floor. John inclines his head at the bed.

'Come on. We both need to sleep.'

Sherlock grasps the offered hand and together they slip beneath the blankets. John turns on his side to face Sherlock and tentatively runs a finger over the marks on the other's throat. Sherlock frowns uncomfortably.

'That was my fault. I shouldn't have been so stupid.'

'I prayed and begged for you to still be alive. You come back and I almost kill you all over again.' John smiles slightly but there's no real humour in it. Sherlock clasps one of his hands and raises it to his lips, kissing the knuckles lightly.

'You didn't kill me the first time, either.'

'Well, I think I might have done,' John says, averting his eyes.

'Look the disease was a result of the curse, how could you possibly have known without anybody telling you...'

'No, not just the disease,' John mutters, a flush stealing its way up his neck. Sherlock stares at him.

'Not the disease? John? Explain.'

'I might have knocked you off the balcony.'

'What?'

'To be fair I was going for Jim,' John says hastily. 'He just happened to have a hold of you at the time. And I'm fairly sure you were only unconscious before you went over the balustrade. On the drive you were definitely dead.'

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. 'Wait, let me get this clear. You tackled Jim off the balcony and we all went over?'

'Yes,' John says, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes. 'Me and Jim managed to land on the lower ledge. You weren't so lucky.'

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. 'That would explain the gravel in my hair,' he says eventually. John gazes at him, dumbstruck, and then they're both laughing again.

XXXXXXXXXX

The storm blows itself out during the night and the next morning dawns bright and clear. The sun streams through the broken windows, highlighting the shining puddles of rainwater on the hardwood floor and the tousled bedcovers under which are two hunched shapes.

Sherlock is using John's broad chest as a pillow and has one leg thrown over John's thighs. John meanwhile has one arm wound around Sherlock's shoulders, holding him close while his other rests lightly on Sherlock's waist. This is how they wake as the sun's rays hit their faces. John opens his eyes first and can't stop the smile which crosses his face. Sherlock's pale skin is glowing softly in the sunlight, looking healthy and pure rather than ashy and corpse-like. Certain strands in his dark curls are shining auburn and his eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he yawns, showing pristine white teeth. John searches for any sign of the scratches, bruises and lacerations that had marred his skin last night but there are none. It's as if the man before him has literally been reborn.

Slowly Sherlock's eyes open and at first the flickering green/grey irises are cloudy with sleep. John can see when awareness filters in and Sherlock moves his head so that he can look up at John.

'Good morning,' John says quietly, running a hand through Sherlock's dark curls. His fingers are unstained when he glances at them. Apparently Sherlock's head injury has also healed itself.

Sherlock hums lazily and stretches out. 'I feel incredible,' he announces, sounding slightly surprised.

'You're looking so much better,' John replies, sitting up against the headboard. 'Everything's healed itself. There's no head wound, no scratches... nothing.' Sherlock blinks at him and then sits bolt upright, examining himself intently. His eyes grow bigger and bigger.

'They're all gone,' he says wonderingly. 'Even the scar I got from falling off Prince when I was seven.'

'That enchantress knew what she was doing,' John comments, raking a hand through his hair. 'Come here.' He opens his arms invitingly and, looking a little unsure, Sherlock shuffles into his embrace.

John kisses him thoroughly, paying no mind to morning breath, relishing it in fact. Sherlock moans a little and presses himself closer against John's body, feeling the heat from John's sleep-warmed skin melt into his own.

'We should probably go downstairs at some point,' John says as they break apart.

Sherlock groans. 'Mycroft's going to be _insufferable_.'

'Why would you say that? I imagine he's going to be over the moon that you're alive!'

Sherlock snorts. 'Doubtful. Being an insufferable git is my brother's default setting.'

'You didn't see him Sherlock. After the cure didn't work he was devastated.' Sherlock looks disbelieving but doesn't say anything further. John gets up and stretches, yawning as he does so. 'You're going to have to get changed,' he says eventually. 'That shirt's virtually in tatters.' His expression turns vaguely lascivious. 'Not that I'm complaining, mind.'

Sherlock flushes slightly and pads over to the large wardrobe. Once he's dressed they make their way downstairs together, John occasionally glancing over at Sherlock with a happy, amazed sort of smile on his face. Halfway down the main staircase, Sherlock reaches out a hand. John doesn't hesitate to take it.

They pause in the foyer, both looking at the small blood spatters still staining the floor. John's hand grips Sherlock's a little tighter.

'I couldn't go through any of that again,' John says softly.

'You won't have to,' Sherlock replies, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the soft skin in between John's fingers. 'It's over now.'

The sound of muted voices drifting from the direction of the kitchen reminds them both why they left the comfort of the room in the first place. Tightening his grasp on Sherlock's hand John leads the way down the corridor.

As they get nearer it becomes evident that there's an argument going on. Mrs Hudson's voice is raised as John draws to a halt by the doorway.

'You can't go barging in there to turf the poor lad out. He's just had the worst day of his life, give him a little time at least Mycroft!'

'Delaying his departure will not help him in the long term, Mrs Hudson,' comes Mycroft's wearied voice. 'I have no doubt you mean well but I am putting this house up for sale this afternoon. Arrangements have been made for yourself and all the staff until you find other positions but Doctor Watson must leave today and return to his village.' There's a pause. 'It's for the best.'

John flashes a quick grin at Sherlock and squeezes his hand briefly before letting go and moving toward the door. Sherlock gets the hint and keeps out of sight as John enters the kitchen, making sure to leave the door slightly ajar.

'Oh, Doctor Watson. You're awake.'

'Yeah,' John mutters, obviously trying to pretend he's none the wiser about Sherlock's recovery but Sherlock is sure he can't be the only one who can hear the obvious joy underlying John's words. 'I couldn't help overhearing. You want me to leave?'

'We were just thinking it would be better for you,' Mycroft says smoothly. 'This place is bound to hold bad memories for you after all and…'

'Why?' John interrupts and Sherlock smirks.

'Why what?' Mycroft responds, puzzled.

'Why does this place hold bad memories for me?'

'Well, because of Sherlock of course,' Mrs Hudson replies, sounding on the brink of tears.

'Oh that's right, you don't know,' John exclaims, 'Sherlock's alive.'


	13. 12: Conclusion

**Author's Note: Well, we're here! We finally made it. This is the last chapter and I hope nobody is too disappointed by it. I hope I managed to get everything in. There is a little teensy bit of m/m action in this chapter but I really don't think it's too graphic so I'm not going to up the rating. If anybody disagrees, please message me and I'll consider making it an 'M'. Other than that, please enjoy! I do have another fic in mind at the moment but it may be awhile until I'm confident enough to put it up. Thank you all so much for staying with this fiction and reviewing. I know WIPs are annoying to read sometimes (I've done my fair share of waiting for emails informing me of an update) so thank you all. I really appreciate it.**

**Damaged Heart**

**Chapter Twelve**

_**Conclusion**_

There's silence for a few seconds then Mycroft speaks. 'What?'

'He's alive. The spell was broken.'

'Doctor Watson, I think I understand. All the grief has put your mind under strain, it's only to be expected. But you are mistaken. My brother is dead. He had no heartbeat, no pulse. You saw him yourself.'

'I did,' John replies calmly, 'but we gave up on him too soon. The magic just took a little time to work, that's all.'

Sherlock hears Mrs Hudson sniff. Finally Mycroft speaks again.

'Very well, Doctor Watson. If my brother is alive, then where is he?'

Sherlock can vividly imagine John's smile as he replies. 'Right outside this door.'

There's a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Hudson. Another pause and then the door is flung open and Mycroft is standing in the threshold. He stares at Sherlock, his eyes wide and shocked, his face pale. Just behind him John stands with an arm wrapped around Mrs Hudson's shoulder. The elderly lady is also staring at Sherlock, disbelieving.

'Sherlock?' Mycroft's voice is soft and then to Sherlock's great surprise he takes two quick steps forward and envelops him in a warm hug. For a moment Sherlock is too surprised to move and just stands there rigid as he feels his brother's arm wrap securely around his back. Eventually he regains his senses a little and tentatively responds by patting Mycroft's back lightly.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson exclaims and breaks free of John to come closer. Mycroft releases him and allows Mrs Hudson to give him her own hug, which seems a lot more natural and comfortable to him than his brother's did.

'How is this possible?' Mycroft mutters and Sherlock takes a second to relish the look of priceless bafflement on his all-knowing brother's face before he begins the explanation.

XXXXXXXXXX

Eventually the staff are all told and all react with varying degrees of enthusiasm to his revival. Throughout it all John is by his side, steadfast and strong, a constant reassuring presence. The army doctor's fingers are curled tightly over his own.

'I am so out of here,' Donovan announces, a sneer making her otherwise attractive features ugly. 'I never thought this would actually happen but now that it has, I'm gone. Good luck Doctor Watson. You're going to need it.'

John can feel Sherlock tense and subtly starts to rub his fingers over Sherlock's hand in a soothing motion.

'If you're going to leave, Donovan, I suggest you do so quickly,' John responds coolly, 'before I help you find where the door is. Anderson, I strongly recommend you follow.'

Without another word the two disappear with their cases, throwing dirty looks at Sherlock and John as they do so. John sighs and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand.

'You okay?' he whispers.

'I will be,' Sherlock replies softly. Lestrade grimaces and then claps his hands together decisively.

'Well, good riddance to them is all I can say. Guess it's just us now, hmm?'

Sherlock looks a little confused. 'You're staying, Lestrade?'

'Of course I am. This is my home, I've been here for years. Unless you'd rather I moved on?'

'Don't be ridiculous Greg,' Mycroft cuts in. 'Of course you can stay here for as long as you like. Mrs Hudson and Chip are also welcome.'

'We don't have anywhere else to go and Greg's right. This is our home,' Mrs Hudson says, a tear in her eye. 'Sherlock you're like a son to me and Mycroft too even though we hardly ever saw you. We're not going anywhere. Are we love?' she turns to Chip whose eyes are looking distinctly reddened.

'Someone's gotta look after the garden,' he mutters, scuffing a trainer-clad foot along the polished marble and earning himself a glare from his grandmother.

'So this is us,' Mycroft announces.

'We should have a party,' Mrs Hudson suddenly exclaims excitedly. 'Invite the whole neighbourhood. It'll be just like the old days.'

Sherlock stiffens. 'I'm not sure that's a good idea,' he says immediately.

'Hold on, Sherlock, this might be just what this house needs,' Mycroft argues. 'A bit of life and fun put back into it… like when Mother and Father were alive.'

'I think you had a very different experience, brother dear,' Sherlock snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously. 'A party here will end one of two ways. Either nobody will turn up because they're all too terrified of the resident 'beast' or they'll arrive and spend the entire time making predictable insulting comments about me. Forgive me but neither of those options sound like much fun. _If_ you'll excuse me.'

With that he tears his hand free from John's grasp and dashes up the stairs towards his room. John sighs as he gazes after him.

'Leave him for the moment, dear,' Mrs Hudson says gently, patting his arm. 'Come along, you can help me get lunch put together.'

They head toward the kitchen, Chip, Greg and Mycroft trailing them. As Mrs Hudson begins sorting out pots and pans and raiding the giant fridge, John and Mycroft sit with Chip and Greg at the table to discuss the idea of a party.

'You can understand why Sherlock reacted the way he did,' John says sadly. 'He thinks that the neighbours all hate him and perhaps he's right to fear their reaction to him. They set traps outside the gates for him for God's sake!'

'I think part of the problem is their ignorance of the situation,' Mycroft argues. 'If they met Sherlock as he is now, they'll realise there's nothing to be scared of. He may be a little odd but he's hardly a beast anymore.'

'He wasn't to start with!' John snaps.

Mycroft holds his hands out placatingly. 'I know that, John, but not many others do.'

There's silence for a little while and then Chip, who has been tracing shapes on the table with a dirty fingernail, speaks up.

'Maybe you could just go and talk to him, John? Try and make him see that a party might be just what's needed to erase the past. Once the neighbours see that there's really nothing to be intimidated about, they may change their minds about him. And he's got you now and you're one of the nicest, most normal people on the planet. Everybody likes you. So if they see that you're with Sherlock then it may convince them that he's not that bad.'

John is aware that his mouth has dropped open as he stares at Chip but isn't entirely sure how to shut it again. Finally he manages to speak.

'Have I ever told you that you're a lot wiser than your years?'

Chip just flushes, mutters something about the dahlias needing to be tended and mooches out of the kitchen.

'I'm going to go and talk to him,' John says at last after a few minutes of silence.

'Good luck,' Greg responds.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Sherlock? Can I come in?'

'The door's not locked.'

Sure enough the knob twists under his palm and he enters Sherlock's bedroom. He finds the man engrossed in a thick book, sat against the headboard of the bed. John scans the room, his eyes lingering on the still broken windows.

'We really need to do something about that,' he says, tilting his head in the direction of the broken glass. Sherlock glances up from his book.

'Is that what you've come to talk to me about?'

John recognises his tone, it's the same blank, icy, indifferent manner he'd encountered when he'd first set foot in the mansion.

'Oh, don't you dare,' he mutters, moving over to the bed.

'Don't I dare, what?'

'Don't regress to who you were under the curse as a way of burying your head. Sherlock, I know this party idea has thrown you for a loop but it might be just what you need.'

'I sincerely doubt it, John. You don't understand what it'll be like. It was awful when I was younger and it's going to be doubly awful now. The villagers _hate_ me. They hate me, John.' The sadness in Sherlock's voice makes John's heart clench and he clambers up onto the double bed so that he's sat opposite Sherlock. Slowly he reaches out and plucks the book from Sherlock's unresisting fingertips, placing it gently to one side.

'They don't understand. They fear you because this whole house has been one big mystery to them since the night you were cursed. Any contact they had with you after that was brief and probably involved you being a right arsehole. Am I right?'

Sherlock drops his head slightly.

'This party isn't some plot designed to persecute you, Sherlock, or make you feel badly about yourself. It's to counteract some of the poison left by the curse. Maybe the villagers will still give you a wide berth. Maybe some of them will make hurtful remarks. I'm not promising that's not going to happen. But they'll be able to see how you've changed. It's obvious to anybody. You're softer and more approachable than you were before. And I'll be right there with you, the whole time. Mrs Hudson, Chip, Greg and Mycroft will be as well. You won't be on your own. And you'll be on your own turf, somewhere you know and feel comfortable with. Don't you think it's better to do this than live like a hermit, afraid to step out of your own front gates?'

'You're quite eloquent when you're passionate about something, John,' Sherlock comments. John can see he's striving to be nonchalant but is horrified to see a tear drip down Sherlock's pale cheek. He reaches out and cups a hand against one sharp cheekbone, the pad of his thumb rubbing small circles on the smooth skin.

'I know it's a big thing for you, Sherlock. I know how much bravery it's going to take. But trust me when I say that I _know_ you can do it. And you'll feel so much better afterwards. It's just a party to celebrate you becoming the person you were always meant to be.'

'And who's that?'

'You but without a hundred tonne weight slung around your shoulders. I love who you are, Sherlock. I fell in love with you before the curse was lifted, remember? You're no different it's just that now you have the ability to let people in. You have the ability to care again. You're still brilliant. You still have a wickedly sharp tongue which you're not afraid to use. And this…' he swipes a finger across Sherlock's cheek to catch the falling tears, '… this just shows how much you can care about people. It shows that you're human and it's been hidden from everybody for far too long.'

There's no response from Sherlock and John leans in to capture those lips in a soft kiss. He clasps one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and with the other draws him in closer so that they're pressed chest to chest. He can feel the frantic thrum of Sherlock's heartbeat and it makes him smile against Sherlock's lips.

'What?' Sherlock mumbles.

'I love you.'

'Love you too,' Sherlock replies before deepening the kiss so that his tongue is tracing the inside of John's mouth. Slowly they find themselves lowering so that eventually Sherlock is lying on the bed with John braced on top of him, their tongues still lazily dancing.

That night is when, after hours of kissing, touching, sucking and stroking, John finally pushes his way into Sherlock. Sherlock arches beneath him, his pale skin flushed and covered with a light sheen of sweat. John knows he'll never forget the way Sherlock whines, moans and rasps his name. They move and rock together as the moonlight shines through the broken glass of the window, pressing adoring kisses on any skin they can reach. John thrusts hard and deep, stroking Sherlock, until they reach their climax together.

Afterwards they lie together sated and sticky.

'Okay,' Sherlock says quietly.

'Hmm?' John replies, already half asleep.

'We'll do the party. But please, promise me you won't leave me alone. I think I can bear it, but only if you're there with me.'

'Always,' John replies, lazily twisting his head and managing to plant a kiss on Sherlock's right eyelid.

XXXXXXXXXX

Much to Sherlock's surprise, the party goes off without a hitch. True, Mrs Hudson may have overdone it slightly as there is virtually an entire orchestra providing the music and the ballroom is in danger of blinding anybody not wearing sunglasses but so far nobody has hurled any derogatory comments his way.

John, looking handsome in his new suit, is right by his side as promised. The villagers had been curious about him but Sherlock is sure he can safely say that John has properly won them all over. Not a hard thing to do, he thinks fondly, as he watches his partner coo over the admittedly very cute six-year-old daughter of the local bakery owner.

'Excuse me?'

Sherlock turns, a little surprised. Although the party has gone well, it's now nearing its end and he has yet to be approached by somebody of their own volition.

'Yes?'

A timid looking woman stands in front of him, fiddling the cuff of her sleeve. She glances up at him shyly.

'I just wanted to say that… I'm glad you're not like they said you were.'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in enquiry. The woman blushes and stumbles over her next words.

'I mean… my parents they… well, they said that you were freakish and hideous… a right cold bastard if you'll pardon the words.'

'And?'

'And… and I don't think you're like that at all. Doctor Watson seems like a really good judge of character and it's obvious he's crazy about you. I've been watching you, oh that sounds really creepy, no I just meant that… well, you seem nice and everything to me…'

'Are you going to get to a point?' Sherlock drawls. The woman blushes an even darker red.

'I'm sorry. I'm clearly bothering you.'

Sherlock is about to turn away from her when suddenly he freezes, his mind racing. This is what he has always done. Pushed people away before they could get close. He's had his bad experiences yes. His parents, the other villagers, Donovan and Anderson to name a few. And yet there are some who know what he's like and like him anyway. Greg and Chip. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft. And John. This poor woman has done nothing wrong and is actually the first person to try to talk to him without being persuaded.

'No, I'm sorry. I'm a little tired and when I'm tired I get cranky. What was your name?'

'Violet. Violet Smith.'

'Well, Violet. Would you like a drink? I hear the bartender makes a mean Martini.'

The blush returns with full force. 'Really? I mean… thank you! Yes, that sounds lovely. Um. Yes.'

He forces himself to smile at her and heads across the room to the bar. As Peter hands him the drink, he's aware of John lingering by his side.

'What?' he snaps.

'Nothing,' John replies idly, with that damnable smirk twisting his perfect lips. 'Knew you had it in you, that's all. You probably just made that girl's night. Should I be jealous?'

Sherlock snorts, swiftly crosses the room to hand Violet her drink and returns. 'Jealous of her? I hardly think so. Despite the fact that she's clearly the wrong gender for me her hairdresser needs to be fired, her dress is two sizes too small, she's far too fond of breathless compliments and seems to think that perfume is applied by the bucketload.'

'Ahh, there we are,' John says, winding his arms around Sherlock's neck.

'What?'

'The Sherlock that I know and love. It's good to see you're still in there and haven't been taking over by _feelings_.'

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and bends down to kiss John deeply, sighing as the familiar tongue traces around his.

'Only you, John. Only you get to see my new weakness.'

At that precise moment the orchestra strikes up a slow number and immediately the guests begin pairing off. John is pleased to see Mrs Hudson cornering a portly bewhiskered older gentleman, Chip has his arms draped around a pretty dark-haired girl from the village and Mycroft is dancing with… Greg.

John blinks and then glances at Sherlock. 'Didn't see that one coming, did you?'

Sherlock snorts. 'Obvious. Disgusting, really. Mycroft's always gone for the older gentleman but I honestly thought Greg would have had better taste.'

John grins as he stretches up to plant a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

'You love that they're together you old softy, no need to try and fool me. Come on, shall we dance?'

'Idiotic sentiment,' Sherlock sniffs, lifting his chin. John takes a couple of steps and holds out his hand.

'Come on, Sherlock. Please? I've never danced with anybody at an event this posh before. Not to mention with the most handsome man in the room. Please?'

Sherlock wants to refuse, he really does. Dancing holds no purpose or reason, he'd be much better off standing at the sidelines, observing. And yet he sees John's open expression, the sparkling blue eyes and mussed blonde hair. He sees the hopeful smile. And he's lost. He has a feeling he always will be.

'Fine. You win. But just one.'

'Of course,' John says smirking. 'Just the one.'


End file.
